


the lighthouse keeper

by gothyringwald



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Lighthouses, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, References to Depression, Sharing Body Heat, Slow Burn, Storms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-01-07 09:16:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12229965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald
Summary: Recently disowned by his parents, Credence Barebone arrives on a remote Australian island with his aunt, Mary Lou, to help with upkeep of the island's lighthouse. Credence is adrift, marooned on this isolated island. He hopes that he might find a friend in the enigmatic lighthouse keeper, Mr Graves, but the reserved man initially rebuffs his offers of friendship. When unfortunate circumstances bring them together, Credence and Graves discover they have more in common than they originally suspected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KonaKona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KonaKona/gifts).



> This is inspired by the Australian film _South Solitary_. It's more the feeling of the film I wanted to capture, than anything, so you don't need to have seen that film to get this. (I also borrowed one line of the summary from the DVD blurb). 
> 
> Rating for future chapters. Tags added as chapters added. Both subject to change. 
> 
> Bits and bobs:
> 
> ♡ [Absolutely GORGEOUS art by quenoeslomismo ](http://quenoeslomismo.tumblr.com/post/165326196936/for-the-much-anticipated-lighthousekeeper-au-of-my)  
> ♡ [More stunning art by uneasywolf!!!! I'm blown away](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/179533816185/uneasywolf-for-gothyringwald-s-fic-the)  
> ♡ [Moodboard by yours truly](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/165911887170/the-lighthouse-keeper-a-gradence-au-gifted)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [almostannette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostannette/pseuds/almostannette) for reading this over for me! 
> 
> (There is a _very_ brief moment of what _could_ be interpreted as suicidal ideation but, to me, is written as a random intrusive thought. It's brief and I don't think the thread will be picked up again so to me it doesn't warrant a tag. But I wanted to mention it just in case.)

> “ _Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again_  
>  -“Mayakovsky” by Frank O’Hara

July, 1926  


A small island, off the coast of Australia 

The small boat rocks violently, turning Credence's stomach. The briny air blasts his face, nose and ears and cheeks red from the cold. A gull wheels overhead. Beside him, his aunt, Mary Lou, sits scowling, cloche hat pulled down snug over her ears. Credence turns his gaze to the cliff face looming before them. A beam of light from the lantern in the lighthouse cuts through the grey sky. The island is bleak, unwelcoming, but it is to be Credence's home for the foreseeable future.

His parents' last demand, before they disowned their only son, was that he go to live with his spinster aunt in Australia. He has been living with her for six months, in a tiny flat in Sydney, helping with her work at the church. But she recently got a job as a cleaner for the lighthouse and quarters on this tiny island, so Credence has had to come with her, no money and no employable skills of his own. Living with his parents had never been happy, their indifference cutting, their harsh words when they did pay him attention almost a relief. But Mary Lou's bitterness, her cruelty is worse. Credence had rarely been outspoken with his parents, but if he did talk back, he was met with a scathing word, a sneer or, more likely, apathy. The first time he had snapped at Mary Lou, she had backhanded him, and Credence learnt not to be so quick with his tongue.

The boat docks, and Credence clambers out, legs nearly giving way beneath him. He still feels like he's on the ship that brought them here. His shoes sink into the wet sand, sloshing in the surf. A family waits on the shore to be taken away, back to the mainland. They barely spare a glance for Credence but the woman stops to talk with Mary Lou.

'You'll find a letter at the cottage. It has instructions about your work, and anything else you might need to know.' The woman's mousy hair is pulled back neatly, her eyes tired and hollow.

'Thank-you,' says Mary Lou, all prim politeness. Credence rolls his eyes and looks around. There is not much to see down on the beach but waves crashing against the craggy rocks, the hill before them and the lighthouse above, bright and white and tall. The mousy-haired woman excuses herself from Mary Lou and joins her family by the boat. Their own luggage sits beside it, waiting to be loaded.

'Get the trunk, Credence,' says Mary Lou, standing with her hands folded in front of her. A gust of wind nearly blows her hat off and she reaches up to keep it on her head, short hair blowing around her face. Credence turns back to the boat and helps the boatman get the trunk that, along with three battered suitcases, holds their meagre possessions. Still, it's heavy and Credence struggles, the exertion weighing on his already unsettled stomach, straining his arms.

He looks up at the hill before them and, over the roar of the wind, yells, 'How do we get it up there?'

The boatman points to a set of tracks and tells Credence they have to strap it onto the contraption there. Credence lugs the trunk over, straps it on with Mary Lou's large suitcase. He holds onto his own.

When he looks up he sees a man standing at the top, by a crank. When the trunk is attached, he starts turning it and the trunk begins its jerky ascent. The family have got into the boat and are now on their way to the mainland, leaving Credence and Mary Lou all but alone on the small island. They begin their own ascent, walking up the steep hill along the splitting tracks, a gale threatening to push them back down with each step. Credence grips his coat around him tightly with one hand, holding his suitcase with the other. He is out of breath before they are even halfway up, the steep incline and the wind in his face making it more and more difficult to breathe with each step.

Mary Lou stumbles and Credence reaches out to steady her. As soon as she is righted, she shirks his hand, and Credence feels a pang in his chest. It shouldn't hurt him, but she's the only family now who will abide his company, as little as she does, and it stings all the same.

Credence looks up to see the man peering down at them. He can't see his face, properly, with the wind stinging his eyes and the man's face cast in shadow, but he seems an unhappy figure. Credence ducks his head against the wind and presses on, legs trembling and aching. When they reach the top he is breathless, and the man is gone. The trunk is gone, too, and from the marks in the dirt, Credence can only guess the man has dragged it away for them. 

'The cottage is this way,' Mary Lou says, and Credence follows, still trying to catch his breath.

__

The cottage is small, weathered, a porch running all around it. The paint on the woodwork is peeling, revealing glimpses of the splitting wood beneath. But the cottage, itself, is sturdy, made to stand the test of inclement weather. Their trunk waits by the front door and Credence feels a surge of gratitude for the man who had brought it here for them. Such a small kindness, but more than Credence has known in six months or longer.

'Bring this in,' says Mary Lou, and then she sweeps inside, leaving Credence staring at the trunk, forlorn. He sighs and grabs one handle, dragging the heavy trunk, walking backwards and into the house, back bent and aching.

Inside, it is dingy, damp. The floorboards beneath Credence's feet creak and groan, the lacquer on them peeling. He leaves the trunk inside the front door and brushes his aching hands on his coat. 

'Aunt Mary?' he calls out, voice swallowed by the gloom.

'In the kitchen.'

Credence frowns but his instinct leads him to the kitchen where Mary Lou has taken off her coat and hat, and is sitting at the table with a letter. He assumes it's from the previous tenants, the instructions the tired woman on the beach had spoken of. Mary Lou is silent as she reads them over and then she folds the paper back into the envelope with a nod. She pushes away from the table, chair legs dragging across the floor and stands. She looks so small in the kitchen, her white face somber as she regards Credence. But, Credence knows, she is formidable.

She claps her hands, says, 'Come help me unpack,' and leaves the kitchen.

And so Credence follows Mary Lou to the trunk and they begin unpacking what little they have. They didn't need to bring much, because the cottage is fully furnished, so it is mostly just personal belongings like clothes, keepsakes—though there are few of these because Mary Lou doesn't hold for sentimentality and Credence had to leave all of his behind—and other bits and pieces. 

Once they are done, Credence goes to his room, the smaller of the two bedrooms. It's draughty, with a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a table by the metal framed bed. The naked mattress sags and feels lumpy when Credence sits on it, settling his suitcase beside him.

Credence had secreted some books and photographs in his case, hiding them from Mary Lou's eagle eyes. He pulls them out and stuffs the photographs at the back of one of the drawers, settling his underclothes atop them. The books he sets on the lopsided shelf above his bed, hoping they won't slide off and fall on him in the night.

He flops on the bed and looks up at the watermarked ceiling. Life could be worse, he knows. But chilled to the bone, tired and stuck on a tiny island with Mary Lou and a half-glimpsed stranger as his only company, it's hard to imagine anything worse than this.

__

The island is small enough that Credence can walk all around it in just a few hours. His thick boots clomp through the scrub, squashing the foliage underfoot where there is no path.

It's cold here, and Credence had thought he would be used to the cold, growing up in New York, but there he had central heating and his parents' apartment wasn't draughty like the cottage he shares with his aunt.

He stamps his feet and blows on his hands, then keeps walking, exploring as much of the island as he can in his spare time. It's almost beautiful, exotic to Credence who had grown up in the city, and in America, besides. Now, he is on the other side of the world. So far, it has been relentlessly grey, cold, the scent of salt always in the air. He hasn't seen any wildlife, except for the gulls. There are pigeons kept to send messages back to the mainland, instructions on how to use them left in the letter from the previous tenants. Credence visits their coop, sometimes, feeds them, but he only feels sad that they cannot fly away whenever they wish, like the gulls can.

In the first few days on the island, he sometimes sees the lighthouse keeper—whose name, he now knows, is Percival Graves—but only ever from a distance. Mary Lou has told him that Mr Graves fought in the war, and Credence wonders if that's why he decided to live out here, all alone. Credence never would have chosen this immense solitude. Then again, Credence supposes, even before he came here, he'd felt as though he lived his life on an island, apart from others. Before, even, he was sent to live with Mary Lou. He had never truly been able to connect. Not with the few friends he made. Certainly not with his parents. Not even with...he shakes himself, turns his face to the wind. He doesn't want to think about him, not now. Tears sting his eyes and he pretends it is only the wind whipping his face that brings them, and nothing else. He hadn't been in love, hadn't even been falling in love and, yet, he's lost everything.

Credence keeps walking, until he stumbles across another cottage, tucked away amongst the bushes. He pauses when he notices Mr Graves hanging out his washing. The union suit, the shirt and trousers, flap gently in the wind on the makeshift clothesline. This cottage is smaller than the one Credence is living in, battered, looks as ramshackle as the man who lives here. Credence thinks he likes it. Mr Graves looks over, and Credence freezes. Should he wave, or quickly walk off? He chances an awkward wave, and Mr Graves nods, then ducks his head, and turns away. He disappears inside and Credence sighs.

He kicks at the ground, and turns back the way he came. When Credence returns to the cottage, Mary Lou is waiting, impatiently. 'Where have you been?'

'I just went for a walk,' Credence says, shrugging off his coat.

'Don't take that off, we have to go clean the lighthouse,' she says, then shoves past Credence, and is out the front door. Credence sighs, and tucks his scarf around his neck, again.

__

The lighthouse stands before them, tall and gleaming in the overcast light, whitewashed outer walls as much a beacon as the light that shines from its lantern. Credence follows Mary Lou inside and takes the bucket of soapy water and scrubbing brush she thrusts at him. He sets it down, briefly, so he can shrug off his coat and hang it on the hook inside the door with his scarf.

He picks the bucket up again and climbs the winding stairs, one hand trailing along the wall beside him, his breathing loud in the quiet building. Mary Lou stays downstairs to clean the entrance, so Credence is alone when he reaches the top. He sets the bucket down, suds sloshing over the rim, and rolls up his sleeves.

The scratch of the brush over the floorboards fades into the background, along with the wind and waves outside, as Credence scrubs and scrubs and scrubs. His knuckles go red, and his elbows and knees ache. He sits back on his heels, and rolls his shoulders and neck. His bones pop and crack and he stretches his arms above his head. He lets his arms fall back and, all of a sudden, tears spring to his eyes. Is this to be his life, now? Why hadn't he been brave and run away, struck out on his own? Why had he let his parents ship him off to the other side of the world, to live with his bitter aunt, after they'd disowned him. He didn't owe them anything and, yet, bewildered and heartbroken, he had only gone along with their wishes. Now, he thinks, as the tears fall onto the freshly scrubbed floor, there is only regret.

'Are you nearly done, Credence?' comes Mary Lou's voice up the stairs, echoing.

Credence wipes at his eyes and quickly gathers his things. 'Yes, Aunt Mary. I'm all done.'

He takes several deep breaths and, picking up his bucket, makes his way back downstairs.

When Credence emerges from the lighthouse, blinking against the glaring daylight, he sees Mary Lou talking with Mr Graves. It's the first time he's seen him this close. He's wearing a navy blue sweater, under a heavy peacoat, a beanie pulled tight over his head. He hands a string of fish to Mary Lou, who takes it with a small, tight smile. His beard is thick, liberally peppered with silvery grey. His arms are crossed and he glances over to Credence when the lighthouse door slams shut behind him. His gaze pierces Credence, makes his stomach go all hot. Credence quickly looks away and walks to their cottage without looking back.

__

There is a persistent gnawing in Credence's stomach as the days pass, a heaviness in his limbs. The hours go by so slowly that he wonders if they have started to go backwards. If he's slipping back in time with each swipe of the brush across the floor, each grey morning, each dinner shared in grim silence with his aunt.

Free of the distractions of city life, with little but the constant crashing of the waves and blowing of the wind to listen to, Credence wonders how he never before realised how lonely he has always been. Is it an indelible part of himself, he wonders as he walks the same path around the island, he has walked the past four days. Is there anything, or anyone, who could ever truly ease it? 

He stops at the edge of the cliff, and looks out over the ocean. There is a sliver of sun peaking out behind the clouds, today, and it glimmers over the water. The sea is quiet, the stillness eerie after days of tumultuous waves and roaring winds. It is not unlike the stillness inside of him; less a calm, more an absence. He stands close to the edge, probably too close. He chances a look down to the beach, below, and his heart starts racing. It's a long way down. He swallows, thickly, hands fisted by his sides. He looks a moment longer but his legs start to tremble. What if he should fall? Would it be so bad? The thought steals his breath away. His stomach is in knots. How could he think such a thing? His aunt would say it's a sin. He turns away, walks back the way he came.

He hugs his arms around himself and looks up. Mr Graves stands some feet away, frowning at Credence. Credence gets the feeling he has been watching him for some time, and pauses. The two men stare at each other, in silence. He isn't sure how long they stand, for time still feels immeasurable to him here on this island, so far away from where he was born. He is frozen in this moment, as Mr Graves frowns at him, dark eyes inscrutable. A wind picks up, whips around them. It loosens Mr Graves's hair, which is not long, but nor is it neat. Credence wills his legs to move, either toward home, or toward Mr Graves, to move to the other man so that they might talk. Surely he must be better company than Mary Lou. But, before they cooperate, Mr Graves turns and stalks away, coat flapping out around him as he walks into the wind.

Credence's heart sinks and tears prick at his eyes. He wipes at his face. He doesn't know why he should feel like crying. It is clear that Mr Graves enjoys his solitude, and likely doesn't want Credence, or anyone else, intruding on it. Still, he is the only other person on this island, aside from Mary Lou, and she resents Credence's existence. He's not sure why she ever agreed to let him stay with her. A sense of familial duty? A chance to save a lost soul from damnation? She had introduced him to one eligible young lady, after another, from her church, made him pray and prayed for him. But all to no avail.

His legs finally agree to move, and so he walks back to the cottage. He hangs his coat up inside the door, then leans back against it for a moment. He is still shaken by his thoughts as he stood by the cliff. Disheartened by Mr Graves's rebuffal, if it could be called such. 

'Credence,' his aunt calls out. There is a question in her voice he finds absurd. Who else would it be? There are only three of them, here, and Mr Graves is unlikely to just walk into their cottage. Part of Credence wishes he might, though he's not sure why, except that having another face to look at might be a relief. And, despite everything, the mysterious air of a man who lives all alone, quite literally cut off from the world, has piqued Credence's interest. 

'Credence?' his aunt repeats, cutting through Credence's thoughts.

'Yes,' Credence calls, pushing away from the door. He walks through the cottage, and into the kitchen, where he finds his aunt shelling the last of the peas that were brought with them, an apron over her simple dress. They will have to eat canned and preserved produce until the next ship comes, bringing supplies and the new Head Lightkeeper and his family. That won't be for some weeks, though.

Credence silently rolls up his sleeves and begins cutting carrots, glad of the monotony of the task, though he lacks the precision and speed his aunt does when she cuts vegetables. Mary Lou guts and bones the fish Mr Graves had given to her earlier, small hands making quick work of the task. They prepare dinner, side by side but never touching, in silence. 

Mary Lou cooks the food—not because it is a woman's work, but because no matter how she tried to teach him, Credence couldn't get the knack of not overcooking everything—while Credence sets the table, and tidies the utensils and chopping board to clean later. He finishes before Mary Lou, and goes to wash up, knowing his aunt won't abide him sitting down to eat without doing so. 

When he returns, the food is on the table, hot and steaming, the soft glow of candles flickering over their meal. There is no electricity here. Credence sits, and Mary Lou says grace, before they eat. His stomach burns with hunger, but he has little appetite. He pushes the food around on his plate but, when he glances up, his aunt is glaring at him, so he forces himself to eat until his plate is spotless. She seems satisfied with this, that he won't be making any displays of wastefulness, and leaves him to wash the dishes without needling him.

Credence fills the sink with hot water and rolls up his sleeves. He stares out of the kitchen window at the darkling sky as he washes, the cuffs of his sleeves wet where they slip down past his elbows. His stomach jolts when he sees Mr Graves, limned by moonlight, hands in his pockets. 

Mr Graves turns toward the cottage and Credence almost ducks. He isn't sure if the other man can see him. But then Mr Graves walks away, presumably back toward the lighthouse. As he watches him retreat, hands still sunk into quickly cooling water, Credence wonders if they will only keep on meeting like this. Not even meeting. Merely glimpsing each other, but never talking, though they live in such a small space. Credence sighs, and finishes the dishes, wiping them and putting them away. 

He climbs the stairs and readies himself for bed by candlelight. Outside, the lighthouse lantern sends its beam into the night; Credence thinks of Mr Graves, all alone, making sure the light doesn't burn out. He slips into bed and curls into himself, under piles of blankets. The gnawing in his stomach is worse at night, nothing to distract him. He feels weighed down by more than just the heaviness of the blankets, like he could sink right through the sagging mattress, the floorboards, keep going until he is under the earth. He shoves his head under the pillow and squeezes his eyes shut, tight. Sleep comes, eventually, but it is not restful and he wakes more tired than when he closed his eyes.

__

It is his sixth day on the island when, out walking once again, Credence nearly trips over something small, moving quick. He rights himself before he stumbles, and looks down to see a tabby cat staring back at him from a few feet away. Credence blinks. He hasn't seen the cat, before, but he supposes it must belong to Mr Graves. As soon as he thinks this, he hears a deep voice yelling out, 'Molly!'

He jumps and so does the cat, darting away, but still in sight. A shadow falls across the ground before him and Credence turns to see Mr Graves. He is less than two feet away. This is the closest he has been to the man, and he can see his face clearly in the grey light. He is handsome, Credence thinks, even with the heavy beard and stern expression. His brow is knit and his dark eyes unsettle Credence who, flustered, blurts, 'Hello,' and then, 'Is that your cat?' 

Credence's face heats. It can't be anyone else's.

'Yes.'

'Oh,' says Credence, as Mr Graves walks past him, then bends to pick up the small tawny creature, who tries to dart away, again. But Mr Graves is quicker, somehow, speed belied by his frame. He holds the cat close to his chest and turns back to Credence. He dips his head and starts to walk back the way he came, and Credence, desperate for human interaction, says, 'It, um, she's a nice cat.' 

Credence silently curses his clumsy tongue but Mr Graves stops and says, 'Thank-you.'

The cat—Molly—struggles a little in Mr Graves's arms but he shifts his hold, scratches her chin and she seems to calm, begrudgingly.

'I'm Credence,' he says, sticking his hand out.

Mr Graves looks at his hand and says, 'I know.' 

'Right.'

Moments pass and Credence nearly withdraws his hand until, finally, Mr Graves grasps it with his own, shaking perfunctorily. The handshake is short, but Credence is left with the impression of warm, calloused skin, before it is gone, again.

'Thank-you for the fish,' says Credence, casting about for something, anything to say. Now that he is standing with Mr Graves, has heard his voice, he longs even more for the conversation to continue.

'That's fine,' he says. He looks away, one hand still absently petting the cat in his arms. Credence can't remember the last time anyone touched him that gently. Mr Graves adds, 'I caught more than we can eat.'

Credence frowns for a moment when Mr Graves says 'we', then realises he is talking about himself and his cat. Credence bites his lip to keep from smiling. 

Another silence falls between the two men and Credence shifts, uncomfortable. He wipes his damp palms against his trousers. 'You have an accent,' he says, inanely.

Mr Graves raises a brow. 'I do,' he says. 'And so do you.'

Credence blushes. 'I mean...I thought you would be Australian. My aunt didn't say you weren't.'

'I'm Irish,' says Mr Graves. 'From Dublin,' he adds and then he turns, and is walking away, again. He calls out, 'See you,' without turning back and Credence watches him leave.

Credence feels shaken, though he can't say why. He wishes he could have thought of something more impressive to say, something that might have made Mr Graves want to stay and talk. But, for the first time in months, he is not thinking about New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Come find me on [tumblr @gothyringwald](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/) :) I have an edit, for the fic, that you can [look at and/or reblog here if you wish](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/165911887170/the-lighthouse-keeper-a-gradence-au-gifted). And quenoeslomismo/KonaKona [drew this beautiful art for me](http://quenoeslomismo.tumblr.com/post/165326196936/for-the-much-anticipated-lighthousekeeper-au-of-my). 
> 
> Some rambling:
> 
> Graves's look in this inspired by Colin in [_The Killing of a Sacred Deer_](https://colinfarrellsource.tumblr.com/post/164259661602/colin-farrell-in-the-killing-of-a-sacred-deer). I'm glad I saw that film before I finished writing this, because lighthouse keeper!Graves without that beard would have just been _wrong_. ;D
> 
> Giving graves a cat at every opportunity! (OK, this is only the second time...) There's no significance to his cat being called Molly other than I was like what the heck do I call his cat and then just thought 'Molly???' But as someone I talked to, who I'm pretty sure was morwrach, pointed out it's appropriate with my user name (don't worry, I'm not inserting myself into the fic in feline form hahaha) and wiki tells me the song Molly Malone is like Dublin's unofficial anthem? So. There you go. Accidental references. I'm pretty sure my brain was just thinking moggy, though, and that ended up as Molly.
> 
> There was no real reason to keep the Australian setting, as neither Graves nor Credence are Australian in this, but...eh. I'm also certain there's no way one man would be left to tend the lighthouse alone, and that any cleaning was likely done by the wives of the lightkeepers, but for narrative purposes I wanted as few characters here as possible, and I wanted a reason for Mary Lou to be there. (I haven't been well enough to do my usual research. I've read a little about lighthouse keeping, specifically in Australia, but not as much as I should have!)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos, so far! This chapter took longer than I'd intended but, oh well. It's done, now!
> 
> Tiniest, briefest mention of Credence having a crush on Grindelwald in the past (because I was stuck on a name, ha) and references to past Credence/OMC

Their first Sunday on the island, Mary Lou performs her own prayer service, making Credence listen attentively—kneeling, head bowed—before she will let him leave the cottage. The church had been Mary Lou's life and, when Credence went to live with her, had become his in a way, too. So, it had surprised him that she would move here, where there is no church, only her clear, even voice in their small living room, to worship God. He does his best to be reverent as she reads from the bible but he is itching to get out of the cottage, or at least away from Mary Lou. He stands too quickly when she finishes, but she lets him go without a fuss.

As he steps outside, he is greeted by the cold, blustery wind he is getting to know so well. It sneaks in beneath his muffler, through the gaps in his coat, tosses his hair as he walks down to the bay. The briny air fills his lungs, stings his nostrils. Mr Graves is fishing on the shore and Credence makes his way over, buoyed by their first official meeting, the previous day.

'Good morning,' Credence says.

'Morning.'

'It's a nice day.' Credence winces. The clouds above are as grey as they have been since he set foot on the island, a light drizzle misting his face.

Mr Graves raises a brow but says, 'Yes,' sparing Credence any further embarrassment.

He holds his fishing pole firm in two hands, the line cast out into the ocean, drifting with the water. Beside him sits a small basket, only one fish inside. It is early, Credence supposes, and Mr Graves may not have been fishing for long. An uneasy silence settles between them, alleviated only by the whispering waves, the wind that still blows. 

'Maybe you could teach me how to fish?' Credence asks, rocking back on his heels. He has no interest in fishing, isn't sure he could bear the idea of plucking the fish from their homes, besides, but, eager to befriend Mr Graves, he is willing to try.

Mr Graves doesn't look at him as he says, 'Not enough equipment. Sorry.'

'Oh.' Credence deflates. He bites his lip. 'Well, can I stay and watch?' There is a desperate edge to his voice that makes him cringe. It's pathetic. He feels like he's back at school, following Gellert, an older boy he'd been infatuated with, usual shyness overridden by the desire to always be near him.

Mr Graves shrugs and Credence stands by him for several long minutes until he can't bear the awkward, squirming tension within him any longer.

'I think I'll just...go home now.' Credence waits a moment but Mr Graves only nods, still looking out at the ocean, so Credence says, 'Bye,' and walks back to the cottage, with a heavy heart. He kicks at the sand. Above him, the gulls fly, dipping and wheeling. If only he had wings.

He pauses and turns back. Mr Graves is looking over at him. Credence sucks in a breath. It looks like Mr Graves is about to call out, but then he shakes his head and turns back to the ocean. Credence wonders, for a moment, if maybe Mr Graves just doesn't know what to say, or how to talk to him. He's lived alone for so long, after all. Maybe it's not a matter of not wanting Credence there, but not knowing what to do when he is. 

Doubt creeps back in easily, though, as it always does. Credence has worked hard to make himself as inoffensive, as bland as possible, always afraid that people will see the real him and not like that person. It's left him uncertain of who he is, feeling devoid of personality. Who would want to befriend someone like that? Still, it doesn't take the sting out, and by the time he has reached the cottage, Credence is dejected, again. But the tiniest glimmer of hope has sparked within him, and it flickers whenever Credence thinks of the way Mr Graves had looked back at him, like he wanted to ask Credence to stay.

__

Credence has been tucked safely away in bed for some hours now, but he can't sleep. He stares up at the ceiling a while longer, then slides out of bed, padding across the room to his chest of drawers. He keeps his steps soft, in case his aunt, a light sleeper, hears them from across the hall. The floorboards are rough beneath his bare feet, and he shivers as a draught catches the hair on his ankles, which peek out from the hems of his too-short pyjamas. He retrieves the photos he'd secreted beneath his clothes, that first day, and brings them back to his bed. It squeaks beneath his weight as he pulls the covers over his crossed knees, and spreads the photos out before him.

There is one of his parents on their wedding day, two happy faces he barely recognises. His chest feels tight as he regards the picture. He isn't sure why he's kept it and quickly shoves it beneath the others. The next is of his graduation. Credence wishes he could jump into the photo, slip back in time, do it all over. He rubs a hand across his face. The last is the one he has been dreading and his hand shakes as he turns it toward the candlelight.

Credence traces the face of the young man peering back at him. He still finds him handsome, misses him in an abstract sort of way. But very little stirs within Credence as he looks at the photo. It surprises him. He had thought it would be too painful to see this reminder, but perhaps time and distance have dulled the ache. Credence does wonder if Henry thinks of him at all. They had hardly parted on good terms so he's sure, if he does, it wouldn't be anything kind.

Credence flops back on his bed, holding the photo to his chest. He closes his eyes, and he is spirited back to that night in New York. Moonshine and jazz. Sweat dripping down his forehead, his neck. The wall solid at his back as he was pressed against it. He sighs. As he drifts into sleep, the scene changes, and he is not with Henry at the speakeasy, but down by the beach, standing beside Mr Graves, watching the sun dip below the horizon. His sleep is fitful, but his dreams, for once, are sweet.

__

A light drizzle dampens Credence's hair as he hovers outside of Mr Graves's cottage, wringing his hands. Dark grey clouds hang above, threatening a downpour, and a bitter wind rattles the cottage's windows. But Credence's face is hot, armpits sweaty, despite the cold. Mary Lou had told him to invite Mr Graves to lunch, tone brooking no arguments, and so he had made out across the island, in the blustering wind. Now, he stands frozen at the door, body refusing to enact his will and move so he can knock.

Credence shivers as another chill wind whistles past. He takes a deep breath and finally forces his arm to raise, his hand to rap on the door. There is no answer but the door groans open under the force of his knuckles. He hesitates, and then steps over the threshold. It's dark inside, and cold, though not as cold as outside. There's a sagging armchair across the room, where Molly lazes, licking her paws and blinking up at Credence. The floorboards creak under his boots as he makes his way through, gaze trailing over the mantel piece, which is bare, except for a small model of a ship. There is no fire in the fireplace but it looks used.

'Mr Graves?' Credence calls, and moves through the cottage, until he finds the man. He stops in the doorway of a bedroom, face heating, heart thudding harder than it had when he was trying to work up the courage to knock.

Mr Graves is leaning over a wash stand, wearing only his trousers, suspenders and unbuttoned union suit hanging down past his hips, and no shirt. He has been washing under his arms, but stops and turns when Credence steps on a loud floorboard. Credence's gaze trails down Mr Graves's neck, to the hair on his broad chest, along his collarbones, to his strong arms. To his soft stomach, usually hidden beneath his sweaters. To the line of hair that disappears into his trousers. Credence's mouth goes dry. 

'Credence,' Mr Graves says, abruptly. He towels off his face, and crosses his arms over his chest.

'I'm sorry, I knocked, the door was open.' Credence tries not to stare at Mr Graves's stomach, his arms, and forces himself to look over the room. The bed has the same metal frame as Credence's, thick woollen blankets tucked in neatly. There is a modest chest of drawers and the walls are mostly unadorned, except for several framed embroideries that hang above the bed. They seem out of character for the reclusive man who lives here, though they are pretty. Mr Graves coughs. Credence looks back to him and blushes.

'It's always unlocked.' Mr Graves shifts his weight, floorboards creaking beneath his bare feet. 'Do you want something?'

'Lunch.'

Mr Graves blinks. 

'I mean, my aunt, she told me to ask you to lunch.' Credence feels like his face is on fire. He presses his hands together and sucks in a breath. 'I'd like it if you came, too, of course.'

'When?'

'This afternoon. At twelve-thirty.'

Mr Graves considers Credence with that same inscrutable gaze. Though Credence is the one who is fully clothed, he can't help but feel naked, exposed by Mr Graves's dark eyes. It's almost unbearable. Finally, Mr Graves nods and says, 'Fine. I'll see you, then.'

__

A pang of empathy shoots through Credence as he watches Mary Lou fuss over Mr Graves, taking his peacoat, holding it like it were fine silk, not the shabby thing it is. She is more polite and warm than Credence has ever seen her, coy smiles and practically batting her lashes. It's absurd, but Credence sees something of the younger woman she must once have been. He doesn't know much about his aunt, as his father rarely spoke of his sister, and Mary Lou is not inclined to speak of the past, herself. But he knows her great love had died in the Great War, that she had emerged from the tragedy a bitter and sombre woman who emigrated to Australia and never loved again. Credence has never quite been in love, but he knows something of loss.

Mary Lou straightens her dress—her best, usually saved for church—and leads Mr Graves past where Credence has been watching them and into the kitchen. Credence follows, and wonders if Mr Graves, a veteran, reminds her of her lost love. Or perhaps it is his his dark eyes and enigmatic, gruff nature that have thawed her. They have certainly stirred something within Credence. 

The air in the kitchen is close, almost stifling. Credence fiddles with his tie as he shuffles into the room, moments after his aunt and Mr Graves. Mr Graves seems lost, standing by the stove, hands curling at his sides. He looks over at Credence, and Credence thinks he sees something vulnerable beneath the stoic facade, but Mary Lou gestures for Mr Graves to sit, and the moment is gone. She brings over a freshly brewed pot of tea, pouring some into a small, crazed teacup that sits on a doily. Mr Graves thanks her and picks up the cup, holding it gently. For one, delirious moment, Credence wishes he were that teacup, cradled in Mr Graves's hands.

Heavens, Credence thinks, and turns away. Of all the places he could have been sent, he ends up on the same island as Mr Graves, strange and aloof but, Credence is increasingly aware now that he's spoken to him, seen him half undressed, utterly beautiful. A defiant thrill shoots through him. His parents had sent him into exile, perhaps thinking that temptation wouldn't find him on the other side of the world. But here is temptation, itself, in the form of a surly veteran with a shaggy beard, strong arms and a broad chest that Credence can't stop thinking about. His cheeks heat as Mr Graves looks over at him, and Credence is glad he can't know his thoughts. He sits, when his aunt tells him to, and avoids looking at Mr Graves until he can turn his thoughts from the sight of the lighthouse keeper bare-chested, and washing himself, that morning. 

They sit around the small table by the window, lace curtains filtering the already soft, grey light. From outside, the scene would look idyllic, but lunch is an awkward affair. Mary Lou's attempts at conversation are stilted both by her usual unsociable nature—earlier coquettish affability fading with each passing minute—and Mr Graves's own. For his part, Credence doesn't say much, for fear of saying the wrong thing.

The sparse conversation is punctuated by the scrape of cutlery, their chewing, swallowing, breathing. The creak of the chair as one or another shifts uncomfortably, the groan of the ancient table. Wind, outside, rattling the window, the constant susurration of the ocean.

'How long have you been living here?' Credence asks, quietly. 

His heart aches when Mr Graves's deep, melodious voice answers, 'Six years'.

'I've barely been able to stand six days!' Credence says, before he can think better of it, dropping his fork.

Mary Lou rests her foot on his, under the table. She presses down, in warning, but his outburst has earnt him the tiniest quirk of Mr Graves's lips, so he ignores it.

'Not everyone is built for this life,' Mr Graves says and, from him, it doesn't sound like a reprimand but a simple statement of facts. 

Credence ducks his head and Mary Lou steers the conversation to the history of the lighthouse. Mr Graves is predictably taciturn but what little he does say is thoughtful, intelligent, if sometimes halting. Credence steals glances at Mr Graves whenever he can and, once or twice, finds the lighthouse keeper looking back at him. There is more to him, Credence is certain, than his appearance may suggest.

After lunch, Mary Lou sees Mr Graves out, leaving Credence to do the dishes. He sneaks out to watch them, hears Mary Lou apologise for his impoliteness. Mr Graves frowns and Credence imagines he looks displeased.

'He seems nice.' 

'Yes, well. Appearances can be deceptive,' says Mary Lou. She seems to stop herself from saying anything further on the matter as she hands Mr Graves his coat back. 'I'll bring over some dinner for you, tonight. You can't be expected to make your own dinner, and tend the lighthouse.'

Credence cringes and slips back to the kitchen, without hearing Mr Graves's reply. The dishes clink against each other, and the sides of the metal sink. Credence lets the sounds, and the warm water, soothe him, as he focuses on the mindless task.

That night, alone in his narrow bed, images of Mr Graves at lunch, rough hands gently holding his cutlery as he cut his fish, of Mr Graves in his cottage, shirtless and chest glistening, flash in Credence's mind. Credence thinks of Mr Graves's hands as he slides one of his own into his pyjama bottoms. Thinks of those strong hands all over him, those fingers inside of him. Mr Graves's weight pushing him into the mattress as he does unspeakable things to him. The bed squeaks as Credence thrusts into his own hand, hips rolling, back arched. He comes with a gasp, face turned into his pillow to muffle the sound.

He wipes his hand off with a grimace, using his shirt, and hopes he can get up early enough to wash it without Mary Lou noticing. He turns onto his side, and pulls the blankets up to his ears, curling up tight to stave off the cold. It is not the blankets that keep him warm, though, but the prickling heat of shame that starts in his belly and makes its way up to his throat, into his ears, tingling along the top of his skull. It keeps him awake, long into the night. Not for the act, but for wondering what Mr Graves would think, if he knew that Credence had been thinking of him when he pleasured himself.

__

'Mr Graves told me he would be building a fence, today,' Mary Lou says, the next morning, at breakfast. She stirs her tea, primly. 'You should help him. After you've eaten.'

Building a fence? How could Credence help with that? But his aunt regards him with a stern expression and, besides, he likes the idea of spending more time with Mr Graves. So, he says, 'Yes, Aunt,' and spoons some porridge into his mouth. It's thick and sticks to his tongue, in between his teeth. He sips his tea, hoping to wash it down, but there are still some oats at the back of his mouth after he swallows. He sighs and eats another spoonful of porridge.

Mary Lou has finished her breakfast, and doesn't wait for Credence before she clears her plates. She stumbles as she reaches the sink, clutching her chest. The plates fall from her grasp, crashing into the sink. Her face is pale, a fine sheen of sweat on her forehead.

'Aunt Mary? Are you OK?' Credence stands, awkwardly, and moves to help her. He stops halfway, uncertain.

Hands braced on the counter, she says, 'I can't breathe.'

'Maybe you should lie down...'

'No, no,' Mary Lou says, shaking her head. 'I'll be fine. I'll sit, again, for a moment. To catch my breath.'

'O-Okay,' Credence says, unconvinced. 'Do you want another cup of tea? Or I can clear the broken plates...'

'No, just finish your breakfast,' she says, waving a hand, as she sits again. Credence does, peering up at Mary Lou every other mouthful of thick porridge, or weak tea. She has been working hard, and is probably just tired, Credence thinks. But it unsettles him to see his indomitable aunt look so unwell.

When he is finished eating, he heads out to offer his help to Mr Graves, a vague thought he shouldn't have left his aunt alone in the back of his mind. But Mary Lou had been insistent and so he shakes it off. He finds Mr Graves by the third cottage—the one where the Head Lightkeeper and his family will live when they arrive—digging a hole with a spade. He has shed his usual peacoat, but still wears one of his array of cable knit sweaters, this one a rich burgundy. It, like most of the man's clothes, has seen better days. But to Credence it speaks of open fires, warm blankets on a cold day, a mug of steaming cocoa in chilled hands. 

A warm, wriggly feeling settles in his belly. He takes a deep breath, watches as Mr Graves sets his foot on the spade, pushing it down into the ground, displacing the dirt there. 

'I thought I might help you,' says Credence when Mr Graves makes no acknowledgement of his presence. He hugs his arms around himself, bounces on the balls of his feet.

'I don't need help.' Mr Graves doesn't pause in his digging, but adds a curt, 'Thank-you.'

'Oh, but, my aunt said...' If Credence goes back, now, he's not sure what Mary Lou will say. Or, worse, what she may do.

Mr Graves looks up at him, leaning one arm on the handle of the spade. He presses his lips together, considers Credence, silently. He shrugs. 

'Now you're here, you may as well help. It'll be quicker with two of us,' he says. He looks Credence up and down. 'Though you hardly look like you're built for it.'

Credence blushes and says, 'What should I do?'

Mr Graves nods at a pile of wood, cut roughly, and says, 'Hand me one of those posts'. Credence scrambles to pick one up—it's heavier than he imagined it would be—and hands it over to Mr Graves, who holds its weight easily.

'Thank-you,' says Mr Graves, softer this time, and Credence chances a small smile. It isn't returned, but Mr Graves's eyes are warm when they meet his.

'What do I do, now?' Credence asks and, so, Mr Graves tells him.

Their work masks any discomfort there may have otherwise been in the silence that falls between them, broken only by the instructions Mr Graves gives Credence, and Credence's occasional question. Credence isn't entirely sure what he's doing, or if he's doing it right, but the hard work, using his hands, is a good distraction from the thoughts that whirl endlessly through his mind. 

'What's the fence for?' Credence asks, wiping his arm across his forehead. His shirt sticks to him, unpleasantly, but it feels good to be warm after being chilled to the bone for the past week.

'Livestock.' Mr Graves straightens up, stretching, bones popping as he twists first one way, then the other. 'When the new Head Lightkeeper arrives, they'll bring sheep. And chickens, but this is for the sheep.' At a blank look from Credence, he adds, 'For food.'

'Oh,' says Credence, slightly queasy at the thought of the animals being slaughtered. He knows where his food comes from, but he's never had to see the animals alive before he ate them.

Mr Graves shakes his head and pushes up his sleeves. Credence is struck by the underside of his forearms, pale and hairless. They look soft. He trails his gaze down to the estuary of veins at Mr Graves's wrist, wants to press his mouth to the delicate skin there.

Mr Graves clears his throat and Credence slowly lifts his gaze, flushing. Mr Graves is staring at him, an odd look in his eyes. Credence blurts, 'Why are you looking at me like that?' certain Mr Graves will rebuke him for his own shameless staring.

But Mr Graves only says, 'Not used to work, are you?'

Credence sags, relieved, but still finds himself blushing. 'No, I suppose not.'

Mr Graves snorts in a way that makes Credence think he might be amused, and they get back to work.

A little while later Credence catches his hand on something sharp. He jerks his hand back, shaking it as though that will alleviate the sting. 'Ouch.' Red bubbles up in his palm, deep against his pale skin.

Mr Graves stops what he's doing, and looks over. 'What happened?'

'I just caught my hand. It's OK.'

'Let me see,' says Mr Graves, and Credence reluctantly holds his hand out.

Mr Graves's shoulder brushes against his as he takes Credence's hand, inspecting the cut. His hand is warm and rough and it burns. Credence's heart beats fast.

'It's not deep,' Mr Graves says, turning Credence's hand. He takes out a handkerchief and wipes the blood away. With it gone, Credence can see it is likely not much deeper than a paper cut. 'But keep it clean.'

Credence nods. He catches the scent of Mr Graves—sweat, the damp wool of his sweater, the faint hint of soap—as he drops his hand, and steps away. Credence tries to commit the scent, the feel of his hands, to memory, in case this is the only chance he has to be this close to Mr Graves.

__

The cottage is quiet when Credence returns. His blood is warm from working with Mr Graves, and he shivers as he steps inside the cold house. He takes off his boots, sets them by the door, to clean later. His back and his arms ache and he just wants to lie down. So, he risks his aunt's anger, and goes straight to his room, after washing his hands, without greeting her.

He considers taking a nap, but he is too wound up from helping Mr Graves, from being _useful_. It thrums in him. He picks up his book and flicks through it, thinking he'll read while there is still daylight—he prefers it to candlelight—but he can't concentrate. Can only think of the sight of Mr Graves's forearms, the gentle rumble of his voice, the warmth of his hands as they cradled Credence's to inspect the cut. How he had been surprised their hands were of a size, noticed that he is taller than Mr Graves. He bites his lip, the corners tilting up in a small, absent smile. His stomach growls, and he remembers he hasn't eaten since breakfast. He sets his book aside and hops off of his bed.

As he makes his way through the house, he remembers how ill Mary Lou had looked, earlier, and shame surges through him. He should have checked on her.

Spurred by guilt and hunger, equally, he checks the kitchen first. It's dark, the early light gone from the room. Mary Lou is slumped over the table. 

'Aunt Mary?' Credence calls. Perhaps she fell asleep, he thinks, but as he edges closer his skin crawls. Something is wrong. He places a hand on her shoulder. 'Aunt Mary, are you OK?'

And this is when he notices she isn't breathing. He touches her neck, but there is no pulse, and her skin is cold under his fingers. He staggers back from the table, legs threatening to give way. His stomach turns. He runs from the kitchen, through the house and out of the front door, all the way to Mr Graves's cottage. His muscles scream but the adrenaline pumping through his veins keeps him going. He bangs on the door and yells out for Mr Graves, who opens the door moments later.

'What's wrong?' 

'My aunt,' Credence says, in between panting breaths. 'She's dead.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on [tumblr @gothyringwald](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/) :)
> 
> I did some minimal research for this chapter, but it wasn't very interesting (to me, at least) and I've been a bit too tired to keep track of that sort of thing. I'm putting the little energy I do have, at present, into writing! So, no research notes, I'm afraid. 
> 
> There were a couple of moments inspired by other media, though, so have some notes on that! (I don't usually write notes on those little inspirations, but maybe they're interesting?)
> 
> I've been listening to the audiobook of _Call Me By Your Name_ (I read it last year, but having Armie Hammer read it to me is so much nicer) and there's a lovely passage where Elio is looking at/thinking about the underside of Oliver's forearms ( & his palms & wrists). I can't remember it exactly, because I've a memory like a sieve, but I do know that I could only dream of writing like André Aciman.
> 
> And, as well as the obvious parallels to Fantastic Beasts canon with the hand cut thing, I was also thinking of a bit in _God's Own Country_ where the two main characters are building a fence and one cuts his hand. (I saw that film while I was still developing this fic and I think I drew a bit from the themes in it, or it maybe solidified what I was working on. Either way, I highly recommend it! It's beautiful. I believe it's coming out in the US at the end of this month. I'm not sure if it's still playing in the UK but it's run is over in Australia, sadly).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to [almostannette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostannette/pseuds/almostannette) for looking this over for me! You're a champ :)

'I shouldn't have left her alone,' Credence says, staring at his aunt laid out in the cellar. 

She looks so much younger, like this, but not peaceful. It's wrong to see a person so still, he thinks, stomach turning. He'd never seen a dead body, before, let alone touched one. He wants to scrub his hands until he can forget the feel of her skin, cold beneath his palms as he carried her, though he's not sure he will ever be able to forget.

'She was unwell, earlier, but I didn't think...' There is a panicked edge to his voice and his throat feels tight. He takes a long, deep breath, hands hanging at his sides.

'You wouldn't have been able to do anything,' says Mr Graves, matter of fact, but kind, as he stands with his arms crossed. He had easily taken charge when he had followed Credence back to the cottage and seen Mary Lou, suggested they move her to the cellar, where it's coldest, for the time being. 'But I'm sorry. For your loss.'

Credence looks up at him, now. 'Oh, I...thank-you.' He's not sure if that's the right thing to say, if there is a right thing to say. 'We weren't close.'

'Still,' says Mr Graves, shifting his weight. 'She was family.'

'Yes,' says Credence, tongue clicking as he swallows, thickly. The only family Credence had left, really. And, now, he has no one. What is he going to do? His head swims. He looks down at his hands and sees they are shaking. He hadn't realised, hadn't felt it. His ears ring and his vision sparkles. 'I don't feel well.'

Mr Graves takes his elbow. 'Come on,' he says and leads Credence back upstairs.

They bypass the kitchen, heading, instead, for the living room where Mr Graves settles him in an armchair, angled toward the fireplace. There is no fire in the grate, today, only ash that has yet to be cleared. Credence wonders if he should clean it.

'I'll make you some tea,' Mr Graves says after several long moments of awkward silence.

Credence nods. He rests his hands on the arms of the chair, curls his fingers around them. The fabric is rough and unfamiliar beneath his palms. He hadn't spent much time in the living room, preferring to keep to his bedroom, and out of Mary Lou's way. Her knitting still sits in a basket by the fireplace, waiting to be taken out, again. Now, it will never be finished.

The kettle whistles, sound dampened by the thick walls, and moments later Mr Graves appears with a cup of tea.

'Here,' he says, handing it to Credence, unceremoniously.

Credence takes it and sips. It's hot and too sweet. He scrunches his nose.

'Extra sugar. For the shock.' Mr Graves hovers, wiping his hands on his trousers.

'You can sit,' Credence manages to say. 'If you want.'

Mr Graves sits on the armchair opposite Credence. 'Your aunt...' he says, abruptly. 'She wasn't kind to you, was she?'

Mr Graves regards him with a penetrating gaze. It's as though he knows exactly what Mary Lou was like and Credence wonders if he's seen the unkindness she was so adept at hiding, before, in someone else. If he knew what to look for.

'No,' says Credence, slowly, clutching the teacup. 'She wasn't.'

Mr Graves nods, and looks away. 'We could send a message to the mainland, but they might not get it. Best to wait until the new Head Lightkeeper and his wife, arrive. You can take your aunt's body with you, then.'

'With me?'

'When you go back to the mainland.'

'Oh,' says Credence. He hasn't thought about what he will do, now, hasn't considered he will have to go back. It was his aunt's job, here, after all, not his. He should be happy to leave this gloomy, forsaken place, but he only feels a pang of loss at the thought. It must be a delayed reaction to his aunt's death, nothing more. He adds, absently, 'Yes.'

Mr Graves nods, then, and stands. 'I should go. Sorry.'

'Thank-you. For...' Credence shakes his head. 

'Will you be OK?'

Credence bites his lip. No, he wants to say, don't leave me alone. But he only says, 'I think so.'

'I'll check on you,' Mr Graves says and claps Credence on the shoulder.

'OK.'

Credence follows Mr Graves to the door, still in a daze. Their footsteps on the creaking floorboards, the groan of the front door seem particularly loud in his ringing ears. He stands by the door, watches Mr Graves as he walks away but then he turns back, one foot off the porch.

His gaze is fixed on Credence's feet, hands curled at his side. 'Maybe we should move your things to the Head Lightkeeper's cottage. So you don't have to stay here.' The words 'with your aunt's corpse' hang unsaid.

'That sounds good.' Credence breathes a sigh of relief and lets Mr Graves back inside.

__

Credence holds a lantern in one hand, a tray laden with sandwiches and hot chocolate balanced precariously in the other, as he makes his way across the island. He had been unable to sleep, in yet another new bed, in yet another new house, and so decided to take some food to Mr Graves, in thanks for his help, earlier. The sandwiches are the only edible food he can make. The hot chocolate is a habit from long, sleepless nights as a child, when it was the only thing that would soothe him.

The wind whips him, more blustery than usual, threatens to topple the tray from his hand, but he makes it to the lighthouse with drink and food unscathed. He winds his way up the spiralled stairs to where Mr Graves sits at a desk, Molly by his feet, licking her paws. Mr Graves quickly puts away whatever he had been holding—Credence catches a glimpse of white with splashes of colour—and turns to him, silent.

'I, uh, I couldn't sleep, so I brought some hot chocolate. And sandwiches, in case you're hungry.' Credence still holds both the tray and lantern, looking about for somewhere to put them down.

Mr Graves clears a space on the desk. 'Thank-you,' he says, taking a mug from the tray as Credence sets it down.

Credence takes the other mug and a sandwich, and sits on the stairs. 'I'd have brought hot food, but I can't cook,' he says, around a mouthful of bread and cheese.

'Well,' says Mr Graves, cradling the mug in both hands, 'You make good hot chocolate.'

Credence ducks his head. 'Thanks.'

Silence settles between them as they eat. The wind batters the lighthouse, growing in ferocity, and Credence wonders if there is a storm coming.

'Are you...all right?' Mr Graves turns the mug in his hands, looks up at Credence from under his furrowed brow.

Credence blinks. 'Uh, yes?'

'You said you couldn't sleep.' Mr Graves pauses, seems to consider his words. 'I thought maybe it was...because of your aunt.'

'Oh,' says Credence, shame washing through him. He hadn't been thinking of Mary Lou at all. 'I...it's strange without her,' he says, words unconvincing to his own ears. 'And I guess I don't like being alone. I should be used to it by now, though.' His voice breaks over the last word. He sips his hot chocolate, but barely tastes its rich, creamy flavour. 

'Some people never get used to it,' Mr Graves says and Credence wonders if he is including himself. He has seemed content on his own, but Credence knows appearances don't always count for much. Perhaps loneliness is something they have in common.

Credence finishes his sandwich, and brushes the crumbs off of his hands. Across the room, Molly jumps onto the desk and, before Mr Graves can get her down, she pulls out whatever he had hidden when Credence came in. It's a piece of fabric, stretched over a hoop, designs woven through it with coloured threads. Mr Graves disentangles Molly from the thread she is pawing at, sets her back down on the floor. She gives a dissatisfied mew and tries to jump back up.

'You embroider?' Credence cranes his neck, leaning forward, eyes widening. He tries to get a better look at the fabric while Mr Graves is fussing over Molly.

Mr Graves nods, almost imperceptibly, and Credence thinks he might be blushing.

'I saw some in your room. Did you do those?' 

Mr Graves only grunts what Credence thinks is an affirmation. He wonders if he should drop the subject, but he is delighted by the idea of Mr Graves doing embroidery. It seems so out of character for the gruff man he thought Mr Graves was and it confirms his suspicions that he has hidden depths yet to be seen. Credence longs to plumb them.

Molly, finally deterred from jumping back onto the desk, trots over to Credence. She brushes against his legs, her soft tail tickling him even through his trousers. He absently runs his hand along her back.

'Can I see some?' 

'No,' says Mr Graves, sharply. He frowns. 'I mean. They're not finished.'

'Sorry,' says Credence, feeling chastised and foolish. 'Maybe I should go,' he starts to say but then Mr Graves thrusts out a hand, clutching a small hoop with fabric stretched over it. Credence sets his mug aside and carefully takes the hoop from Mr Graves. He gasps. The work is fine, intricate.

'It's beautiful.' He runs his fingers over the stitching, then looks up. 'I could never do anything like this. I'm all thumbs.'

'It's easy, once you have the knack,' says Mr Graves, but he looks pleased.

There is a loud clap of thunder as Credence hands the embroidery back, startling both men. Mr Graves's hand shakes as he takes the embroidery from Credence. Another surprise, thinks Credence, another layer to Mr Graves.

Rain starts pouring, the wind roars and more thunder rumbles. Molly skitters under the desk, peeking her head out, ears back. Mr Graves reaches down to pick her up, hands still shaking. He cradles her against his chest, stroking her head.

'I should get back, before the weather gets worse,' says Credence, standing, though he doesn't want to leave, doesn't want to be alone.

Mr Graves shakes his head. 'You should wait out the storm. Just to be safe.'

Credence looks down the stairs, then back to Mr Graves. 'OK,' he says, easily, pleased at having to stay here. He hopes he doesn't sound too eager, but Mr Graves doesn't say anything.

A shiver runs through Credence, then, the thick stone walls bleeding cold into the air. Mr Graves eyes him, then stands to retrieve a blanket from a trunk, Molly still safe in his arms.

'Here,' he says, handing the blanket over.

'Thank-you, Mr Graves,' says Credence as he wraps it around himself and settles back on the stairs.

'You're welcome,' says Mr Graves. He doesn't look at Credence as he adds, 'But call me Percival.'

__

The storm continues into the night and well into the next day. Credence is restless, agitated. Though he wants to be here, with Percival, it is the thought that he has no choice but to stay in the lighthouse that itches under his skin. It's cramped in here, as well, the lighting too dim, the air cold but somehow suffocating.

He paces the length of the room, for the countless time, and Percival huffs at his desk. Credence pauses, certain he is in the other man's way, though he has yet to say anything. When Percival still remains silent, Credence resumes his pacing, hands in his pockets.

Percival huffs, again, and sets his work down. He turns in his chair to look at Credence. 'Will you stop that?' he snaps.

Credence flushes and stops in the middle of the room. He folds his arms around himself. 'Sorry.'

Percival sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. 'No, I'm sorry. I'm not used to having anyone else with me.'

Credence nods, bouncing lightly on his feet. 'It's OK.' He looks down at the floor. 'But if I'm in your way, I could go downstairs or...'

'You're not.'

'I don't mind, really.'

'You're not in the way, Credence,' Percival says, more forcefully.

'OK,' says Credence, though he isn't entirely convinced. 'Is there anything I can do? To help, I mean.'

'There's nothing to do but wait out the storm,' Percival says, spreading his hands.

Credence sighs. He paces back to the stairs and sits, head in his hands. 

'She was my only family,' he says, thinking of his aunt. Before he can worry what Percival may think of him, he adds, 'And I'm not sure I feel anything about her death.'

'It hasn't hit you, yet,' Percival says, like he knows. Credence supposes he must. 

'I guess not.' Credence wonders when, or if, it will. 'She's the first dead person I've ever seen.'

Percival rubs his hands over his knees. He takes a deep breath. 'Death is never easy.'

'You must have seen a lot of it, during the war.'

'Yes,' Percival says.

'What was it like?' Credence asks and immediately regrets it. It's an insensitive question, he knows, but he was only twelve when the war ended. As a child, he romanticised the handsome soldiers in their crisp uniforms he had sometimes seen. But growing older, reading and hearing more, the reality of war seemed grim, but still intangible.

'It was...messy,' Percival says, after long moments. His face is blank, voice flat.

Credence bites his lip, and looks away. He wonders what Percival must have seen all those years and miles ago, and wishes he hadn't brought the subject up.

'Here,' says Percival, voice back to normal, digging through one of the desk's drawers. He pulls out a book and brings it over. 'This might help pass the time.'

'Thank-you,' says Credence, taking the book. It's a tattered collection of poems by Wilfred Owen. Credence hasn't read much poetry since he left school, can't recall any by Owen, but he appreciates the gesture.

Percival takes up his embroidery, again, Molly under the desk by his feet. Credence opens the book, its cracked spine giving easily, and starts to read.

__

'How did you end up here?' Percival asks, startling Credence who has been engrossed in his reading. The poems are frank, but beautiful.

Molly is sleeping somewhere under the desk, and the rain and thunder have eased off for the time being. Not enough for them to safely leave the lighthouse, but enough that the sound of it is almost calming, now.

Credence sets the book in his lap. Part of him wants to tell Percival the truth, but he doesn't want to risk shattering this tentative camaraderie. 'I, uh, I did something my parents didn't like.'

Percival looks away, now, a small frown furrowing his brow. Light hits the curve of his neck, the shell of his ear; the lines of his form are surprisingly elegant. He folds his hands on the desk in front of him. 'You don't have to tell me. I don't want to pry.'

'I want to, I think,' Credence trails off with a sigh. He fists a hand in his hair, elbow resting on one knee. 'I just don't want you to think badly of me.'

'Did you...hurt someone?' Percival looks up at Credence, now, frown deepening. He shakes his head. 'I can't imagine that.'

Credence huffs a rueful laugh. 'My parents would have preferred that.' He considers what to say, and sucks in a shaky breath. 'I was...with someone. They didn't like. Didn't approve of.'

Percival's brows raise. 'And they sent you away for that?'

'They disowned me.' Exiled me, Credence almost wants to say, but doesn't. Not with Mary Lou lying in the cellar of the cottage. She was unkind, cruel, even, but she didn't have to take Credence in, didn't have to give him a home. Shame and guilt churn within him, that he cannot grieve for her.

'I'm sorry.'

Credence shrugs and blinks against the prickling in his eyes. He doesn't want to cry in front of Percival, doesn't want to shed more tears over his parents, besides. They don't deserve it. 

Percival looks like he wants to say something more but a crack of thunder breaks the moment, and they both turn back to their previous tasks, silently. Credence picks up the book, again. It's musty, feels worn and soft in his hands. It's obviously well loved and it warms Credence to think that Percival has let him borrow it. But, after flicking through three pages, and not absorbing anything, Credence gives up the pretence of reading. Percival is pulling a length of thread through the fabric stretched over the hoop in his hands, dim light glinting off the needle. He does it again, and again, hand dipping, thread pulling. It's almost like a dance. 

Credence doesn't know why he does it—if it's the endless rain, being holed up like this, or just the desperate need for someone to _know_ —but as he watches Percival, he says, softly, 'His name was Henry.' He stares resolutely at his lap, fiddling with the corner of the book cover.

'Who?' 

Credence looks up, then. 'The person my parents disapproved of. His name was Henry.'

Percival looks at him, silent, inscrutable, as always. Credence is certain that, storm or no, Percival will throw him outside, refuse to talk to him until the ship comes and Credence can leave. Perhaps do worse. His heart beats so hard he thinks he might be sick but he stays put, has to see this out now that the truth has been told. And, with the storm, he cannot leave the lighthouse, anyway.

The longest moments of his life pass before Percival says, simply, 'Henry's a nice name,' and, with those four words, Credence feels some of the weight he's been carrying for months, now, lighten.

__

'I have to check on the lamp,' Percival says, stretching as he stands. 'Would you like to come up with me?'

'Sure,' says Credence and follows Percival to the top of the lighthouse. The structure seems to sway in the battering wind as they wind their way up the stairs. When they reach the top, Percival does something with the lamp that Credence doesn't understand. Any other day, he would ask about it, but today he is too exhausted, still oddly numb from Mary Lou's death. So, he moves to the window, looks out at the storm raging over the sea. Lightning forks in the distance as thunder rumbles. 

'It's beautiful,' Credence says, a little breathless, fingers spread over the window. The glass is cold beneath his hands. Percival doesn't say anything and Credence turns to see him standing by the lamp, looking toward Credence. At Credence, he thinks, not out the window.

The lamp turns, lighting Percival intermittently, alternately obscuring his face as it rotates. There is something intense in his gaze when the light lands on him that steals Credence's breath away.

'Yes,' Percival says, eyes locking with Credence's, briefly. 'It is.'

Credence flushes, and turns back to look out of the window. Percival comes to stand beside him, their arms just touching as they stand side by side, watching the storm.

It is beautiful, like Credence had said, breathtaking. He thinks it would be a frightening scene without Percival near him, and wonders if Percival has been up here, alone, on such a night as this. Would it frighten him, or would he think nothing of it? Thunder booms, again, and Percival's hand jumps, just slightly, where it rests by Credence's on the windowsill. 

Credence looks at him sidelong. His gaze seems faraway, like he's in a daze but his hand still trembles. Slowly, Credence slides his fingers over Percival's. Just two, his little and ring fingers, over Percival's own.

Percival blinks and turns to Credence, frowning. An apology sits on Credence's tongue, but then Percival's face softens and Credence lets out a long breath. Percival leans his head against the window, face turned away, but he doesn't move his hand from where it rests under Credence's. The air seems filled with the same electric current that charges the lightning splintering the sky. Credence doesn't know what it means, or if Percival feels it, too, but it sings along his skin. It feels like a promise, like hope.

__

The sea rages on, rain lashes the sides of the lighthouse, and thunder booms. Credence thinks it is louder, now, than it was earlier, and hugs his knees tighter to his chest. He is about to remark upon it, but he looks up to see Percival staring blankly ahead, hands on his knees. It's the same unseeing gaze that Credence had glimpsed when they were watching the frothing sea from the top of the lighthouse. It unnerves him.

'Mr Graves?' He asks. No response. He stands, hefting the blanket back in place as it slips from his shoulders, clutching it tight around him. 'Percival?'

He approaches slowly, but Percival doesn't seem to see him. It's like Credence isn't there. No, that's not right, thinks Credence. It's like Percival isn't here. Like he's gone some place else. 

There is a fine sheen of sweat on Percival's forehead, despite the chilly temperature inside. Credence frowns and lays a careful hand on his shoulder. Percival startles, like he's been scalded, and bolts to his feet, throwing Credence's hand off. Credence stumbles back, unbalanced by the sudden movement. The blanket falls to the floor.

'I-I'm sorry,' Credence says, heart racing.

'What happened?' Percival is breathing heavily, nostrils flared.

'You just...' Credence starts, unsure what to say. He waves a hand. 'It was like you weren't here.'

Percival blinks. He crosses his arms over his chest and his breathing slowly evens out. 'Sorry,' he says. 'That happens, sometimes. I think...I think it was the thunder.' 

It takes Credence a moment to connect thunder to loud noise to gunfire, Percival's war history fresh in his mind. He's heard of soldiers, returning from war, skittish and withdrawn. Changed men, carrying the invisible scars of war their whole lives. Credence can't understand, not entirely, but he knows what it is like to bear the heavy weight of the past.

'Oh,' says Credence. 'That's...OK.' He aches to soothe Percival, in some way, but isn't sure if Percival would accept whatever comfort Credence could offer. At a loss, he repeats, 'I'm sorry,' the words falling flat in the silence.

The light is dim, but Credence thinks Percival's face is flushed as he turns away with a low grunt of acknowledgement. 'I'm not fit for company, am I?' He hides his face in his hands with a groan.

'Don't say that. You're the best I could hope for.' Credence steps forward, hand outstretched, but he stops short of touching Percival, again.

Percival huffs and shakes his head. 'I'm not good with people.'

'Neither am I,' says Credence. He spreads his hands. 'But I think we're good with each other.' He blushes when he realises how that might sound, but he doesn't amend it.

Percival looks at him, now, eyes sharper, clearer. 'I didn't hurt you, did I?'

'Not at all.' 

Percival nods, the tension in his shoulders dropping. He stoops to pick up the blanket and makes to hand it over, but then he drapes it around Credence, himself, instead. He rests his hands, warm and heavy, on Credence's shoulders for a moment, gaze averted. A blush creeps up Credence's neck, settling in his cheeks. His breathing deepens, lips parted, mouth dry. 

It's been so long since anyone has touched him like this that he doesn't quite know what to do. But then Percival squeezes his shoulders, gently, and moves back to the desk. The chair creeks under his weight and Molly jumps into his lap, settling herself with a satisfied purr. Percival runs a hand over her back, and picks up his embroidery as Credence sits on the stairs, shoulders still warm where Percival's hands had rested, moments before.

'You're the best company I could hope for, too,' Percival murmurs, without looking up. 

The corners of his mouth twitch and he darts a look at Credence, who smiles fully at him, before turning back to his embroidery. Credence is content just to watch Percival - enraptured by those coarse hands doing such fine, elegant work—hugging his arms around himself beneath the heavy woollen blanket.

__

Later, Credence wakes, teeth chattering. The blanket has slipped from his shoulders while he dozed, now bunched around his waist. His face is numb from leaning against the wall and his shoulders ache. A groan escapes him as he rolls his stiff neck and Percival, who has been focussed on his embroidery, looks over to him.

'Are you all right?' He asks, setting aside his work. Molly purrs at his feet, sleeping peacefully.

'Yeah,' says Credence, voice croaky. He wipes at his mouth, and his hand comes away wet. He must have been drooling and hopes Percival didn't notice. 'Just wish I hadn't fallen asleep like that.' He pulls the blanket back over his shoulders but shivers, again.

'Cold?' Percival asks, fully turned in Credence's direction, now. The lantern on the desk burns, sputtering occasionally, casting its flickering yellow light over the room.

'A little.'

Percival stands and starts to take off his peacoat, but Credence holds up a hand, staying his actions. 

'Oh, no, then you'll be cold,' he says, though the thought of wearing Percival's coat is appealing, as is the thought that Percival would give up his own comfort for Credence's.

'I don't feel the cold too much.'

Credence bites his lip. 'If you're sure.'

Percival nods. He slips the coat off, left in a thick sweater, and hands it over to Credence. The wool is thick, scratchy in is hands. As Credence slides the coat on, inhaling the heady scent of Percival in the wool, he says, 'You could sit with me, if you want.'

Percival tilts his head. Credence flushes, feeling foolish for his suggestion but Percival only retrieves his embroidery and then sits beside him. The stairs are narrow and so they are squashed together, Percival's warmth bleeding through the layers of wool between them.

Across the room, Molly blinks lazily, Percival having disturbed her slumber. She stretches, back arched, and then nimbly pads over to them where she settles herself near Percival's feet, once more.

The wall that Percival leans against is chilled, Credence knows, and though Percival had said the cold doesn't bother him, Credence still says, 'Do you, uh, do you want to get under the blanket, too?'

Being holed up in the lighthouse must have loosened his tongue, he thinks. He would rarely be so bold, otherwise.

Percival nods, quickly, embroidery clutched in his hands. 'Thank-you,' he says as Credence lifts the corner of the blanket so that they can huddle beneath it, together. This is the closest they've been to each other since they met. Credence hopes it won't be his only opportunity to be this close to Percival, but relishes it like it will be.

Percival shifts next to him, thumb swiping over the fabric in his hands, head bowed.

'Could you teach me to embroider?' Credence asks, running a finger over the delicate stitching of a sprig of lavender. He looks up to see Percival staring at him, eyes warm, pleased.

'Yes,' Percival says, voice thick and deep in the quiet room.

Credence smiles, heart hammering, and listens attentively as Percival instructs him. He is mostly patient with Credence, even as his clumsy fingers tangle the thread more often than not, but it is clear he is not used to this. Not just teaching someone, but of sharing this part of himself, any part of himself. It pleases Credence that Percival would share it with him, even as impatience starts to edge his words as he lets Credence do a small area of the design. When Credence is done, he hands the fabric back to Percival, who raises his brows.

'No good?' Credence twirls some excess thread around the tip of his index finger. 

'It's fine. For a beginner,' Percival says, mouth twitching. 'But would you be offended if I undid it?' His eyes twinkle as he looks up and Credence laughs.

'No, I wouldn't.'

'Good,' says Percival, but he sets the work aside.

A loud rumble shakes the lighthouse, and Percival's breath hitches. Credence lays his hand over both of Percival's where they rest in his lap and Percival's breathing eases.

'You're OK,' says Credence, as much to himself as to Percival.

Percival nods and turns his hand so he's holding Credence's. His hand is as warm and rough as Credence remembered, just as gentle. Their faces are closer together than they were moments ago. His own breath catches, now. His eyes dart to Percival's mouth, the thin curve of his lips almost obscured by his beard, then back to his eyes. Percival is looking at him in a way Credence thinks he recognises. It's the same way Henry had looked before he kissed Credence, that first time. Credence squeezes Percival's hand, places his other tentatively on Percival's knee.

'Credence,' Percival says, sucking in a breath. He leans closer, just as Credence sways forward, too.

'Can I...' Credence starts, trailing off, staring resolutely at Percival's mouth, now. He licks his lips. 

'Yes,' says Percival, and then they both move at the same time. 

Their noses bump and their lips don't quite meet, the angle all wrong.

'Sorry,' Credence says, face hot as he pulls back. 

Percival runs a hand through his hair. 'We didn't do that too well, did we?'

'No,' says Credence, heart pounding harder than the rain outside.

Percival presses his lips together and looks away. He rubs his thumb across the back of Credence's hand and looks back to him. 'Should we try again?'

'Yes.'

They lean in, again. Slower, this time, the angle almost perfect. Their lips meet and it is soft and sweet and just right. Credence's stomach does somersaults.

'Better?' Percival asks with a soft, nearly shy, smile.

'Much,' says Credence and leans in to kiss Percival, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to [come find me on tumblr @gothyringwald](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/) :) (Also sorry for deleting and then re-uploading this chapter! I thought AO3 was having a huge freak-out and thought it was best to leave the chapter until it was resolved and now I feel like a dummy. Ha.)
> 
> So, _South Solitary_ , the film I was inspired by/take a lot of the plot from, is actually quite funny. But this fic has quite a different tone. I realise, now, it might make the whole Mary Lou dying and keeping her body in the cellar incredibly morbid, rather than darkly funny/tragic. Whoops!
> 
> A couple of moments/lines were directly taken from the film. The awkward kiss (and the lines 'we didn't do that very well, did we?' 'should we try again?') as well as when Graves teaches Credence how to embroider and asks if Credence minds if he undid it. Oh and the 'I'm not fit for company', 'You're the best I could hope for' exchange is also lifted from the film.
> 
> The more open islands (including the real South Solitary that the film was named after) had high protective walls to make moving from the quarters to the lighthouse easier but, as in the film, I decided to ignore that for narrative purposes. Still, I thought it was neat!
> 
> [This would be the book](https://www.bl.uk/collection-items/poems-wilfred-owen) that Graves lends Credence. I recently dug out my own (much later) copy of Owen's poems and have been reading them, and thought they were fitting for Graves's character/experiences.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took longer than I wanted it to! And this chapter is a little shorter than the others, as well.
> 
> Thanks to [almostanette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostannette/pseuds/almostannette) for looking this over for me :)

The storm passes as storms have a tendency to do. It leaves the island battered but it is a hardy place, so the damage is minimal. Credence isn't sure his heart is as robust, though. It had been full to bursting after he and Percival had kissed, his spirits buoyed, but they soon sink as days pass and Percival withdraws, once more. It is like the days in the lighthouse never happened.

Gone is the Percival who taught Credence to embroider, who gave him the blanket to keep him warm, who blushed when they kissed. In his stead is the Percival, the Mr Graves, Credence remembers from the first days on the island, the one he was never certain of. When they had stepped out of the lighthouse, the sky above calm and grey, Credence had felt, for the first time in many months, like there was something to look forward to.

But Percival had mumbled, 'I have to go,' and walked off, not looking at Credence. Credence has barely seen him since then. He isn't sure how to act in the face of Percival's gruff demeanour returning, even though he has seen beneath it so recently. Seen the hurt and loneliness there, that is mirrored within his own soul. But years of uncertainty, insecurity, are difficult to overcome, even when he desperately wants to talk with Percival, again. So, instead of reaching out to the other man, he busies himself as much as he can with continuing Mary Lou's cleaning duties. Tries to wash away the sorrow as he washes the lighthouse windows. He gives Percival the space he seems to want, though it aches not to be near him. 

How can it already hurt so much, Credence wonders, spying Percival down on the beach as he walks back to the cottage, one morning, three sleepless nights after the storm. Percival seems a lonesome figure, and that hurts, too, more than Credence's own loneliness does. 

Percival looks up and seems to see Credence. The set of his shoulders changes, and what Credence can see of his face brightens, visible even from this distance. Credence pauses, bucket in hand and waves, his arm quaking so much he wonders that it doesn't fall off. Percival raises his own hand, returning the greeting. 

Oh, thinks Credence, has he been waiting for me to come to him, all these days? Did his own shyness keep him away, too? Spurred by the thought, Credence drops his bucket, soapy water splashing up his trouser leg, and rushes down to the beach. His shoes slosh in the surf as he makes his way to Percival, trousers growing damper by the step, but he hardly notices.

'Hello,' Percival starts to say, voice like wet sand, but he doesn't get any further as Credence rushes at him, throwing his arms around his neck. He kisses his nose, his cheek, bristly beard scratching against his own stubble, and finally kisses him clumsily on the mouth.

'I missed you,' Credence says as he pulls back.

Percival blinks at him and Credence thinks he's misread the whole situation horribly, for one heart stopping moment. The susurration of the waves is drowned out by the roaring of blood in his ears. But Percival hasn't shaken Credence's arms from where they rest around his neck, and his own arms are wound about Credence's waist. 

Percival holds Credence tight, looks up at him in astonishment. He sighs and says, 'I missed you, too.'

__

Credence rests easier, that night, after kissing Percival on the beach. His stomach uncoils and he feels like he's floating, again. He feels _hopeful_. He wonders if Percival has been restless, the way Credence has been, thinking he was unwanted, that the kisses they shared in the lighthouse were just fantasies conjured by the storm. He had seemed much happier after they kissed, again, on the beach. Unfurled. They spent the rest of the day close to each other, while Percival did his work, Credence helping when he could.

Later, while they had lunch together, Percival had turned from Credence, shoulders hunching. Credence's breath had caught, as he wondered if Percival would pull away, once more. But Percival had only said, 'I'm sorry. For the past few days. I...' He had turned to Credence, then, running a hand through his hair.

There was more in his eyes than he could ever say, Credence was sure of it, so he had placed his hand on Percival's arm and said, 'It's OK,' and 'I'm sorry, too,' then kissed him, again.

Credence hugs his pillow tight and thinks, with a flash of heat, the only thing that could make him even happier would be if Percival were in his bed with him. Perhaps soon, he thinks, as he drifts off to sleep.

__

The next morning, Credence rises early, to another grey sky, heavy with clouds, but his heart is light, full of possibilities. He dresses quickly and sets out, finding Percival mending the fence they had built together. The storm had torn down one section but the rest is surprisingly intact.

'Do you need any help?' Credence asks as he approaches. A chill wind blows past, and he buttons up his coat, which he'd left undone in his haste to find Percival. His boots crunch through twigs and debris, scattered by the storm.

Percival looks up, lips quirked, his eyes brightening as they land on Credence. 'No, I'm nearly done,' he says, 'but thank-you.'

Credence nods, biting his lip. 'Have you eaten, yet? I could make you something, when you're done.' Credence isn't sure what he could make—toast is probably all he can manage. Maybe eggs. But Percival just says, 'Or I can make us both something when I'm done.'

Credence wants to protest but the prospect of not having to cook is too appealing and so he says, 'Yes, thank-you,' and settles on a tree stump to watch Percival.

Percival has his sleeves rolled up and Credence, emboldened by their kisses, openly admires his arms while he works. Watches the tendons and muscles move beneath his skin, the dark hair slicked down with sweat. The breadth of his hands, his quick, elegant fingers. Credence is mesmerised.

Soon, Percival finishes the fence, running the back of his arm over his forehead to catch the perspiration beading there. Credence swallows thickly. Percival looks up and says, 'Ready?' to Credence who nods and follows Percival to his cottage.

Now that Credence has got to know Percival the cottage seems cosier than it had at first. More welcoming. He smiles when he sees Percival's embroidery things on an armchair and bends to pet Molly when she circles his legs. She meows at him, and slinks away.

Credence follows Percival to a cluttered but clean kitchen and sits at the table Percival nods toward. The kitchen is smaller than the ones in the other cottages, but it doesn't feel cramped. A window above the sink lets the light in, unhindered, as there are no curtains. There is a stove, pantry, a rack of pots and pans and a small, rickety table tucked against the wall with two mismatched chairs. 

Percival retrieves what he needs from the pantry and sets about making them breakfast while Credence watches on, a warm feeling spreading through his stomach.

'Do you miss your aunt?' Percival asks abruptly as he cracks an egg over a skillet.

'No,' Credence answers honestly, simply, a flush of shame creeping up his throat. He has barely thought of his aunt, has thought only of Percival, but now that Percival has mentioned her, his stomach plummets. But he realises he's been avoiding the cottage where Mary Lou's body lies, that the thought of going anywhere near it is nauseating. Still, he does not miss her. He twists his hands together. 'Is that wicked, do you think?'

Percival turns to him, then, backlit by the light streaming in the kitchen window. His face, and therefore his expression, is hidden from Credence. But he answers just as simply and, Credence hopes, just as honestly, 'No,' and turns back to the eggs. They sizzle away as Percival keeps a careful eye on them, Credence's own gaze firm on Percival's strong back. He could be happy just to sit and watch Percival endlessly, Credence thinks, and then the other man turns to him and he blushes. Percival only smiles.

In the end, they share a simple breakfast of buttered toast and eggs and too-sweet tea. They sit close, stealing glances at each other, their feet touching beneath the small table, while they eat.

'Come here,' says Percival, picking up Molly, who has joined them in the kitchen, settling her on his lap. She purrs as Percival strokes his hand along her back.

'I would have pictured you with a dog,' Credence says, around a mouthful of eggs. He can't picture Percival without Molly, now, but before he got to know him, he had thought a big, burly dog would have suited the lighthouse keeper better.

Percival's mouth twists into a sad smile. 'I had one but she died.'

'I'm sorry.' 

Percival ducks his head. 'This girl actually belonged to another family.'

'They left her?'

'She wouldn't get on the boat. She was born here.' Percival scratches between Molly's ears, looking down at her, fondly. 'The smallest in the litter.' 

'Oh,' says Credence, smiling at the thought of Percival tending to the small, stubborn kitten Molly must once have been.

She has been his only true companion, Percival tells him, and it tugs at Credence's heart. He reaches out, tentatively, and rests his hand over Percival's. 

Tongue loosened by Percival's words, Credence admits, 'I don't miss my aunt, but I do miss knowing someone else was there. Even if my aunt's company wasn't that comforting.'

Percival frowns and sips his tea. 'Have you been lonely?'

Credence nods. The words come easily, now, when he says, 'I'm not sure I'm made for living alone.'

'I'm sorry,' Percival says and Credence wonders if Percival is apologising, again, for leaving him alone after the storm. He remembers how he had said some people never get used to being lonely, that first night in the lighthouse. Credence squeezes his hand, hopes Percival knows he means it's okay, whatever it is. Percival looks over Credence's shoulder, then, face crinkling in consideration. 'You could stay here, with me.'

Credence's heart leaps. Percival clears his throat. 'Until the next ship comes.'

Credence blinks. He'd forgotten about the ship, that anything else existed. Joy and sorrow war within him, tumultuous and confusing. He decides to focus on joy, at the prospect of living in Percival's cottage with him, even just for two weeks, and says, 'I'd like that. Thank you.'

__

When they move Credence's belongings to Percival's cottage, there is a moment of awkwardness when Credence isn't sure where to put them. Did Percival mean they should live _together_ or just that Credence could stay here?

He hesitates in the living room, suitcase clutched in both hands, held stiffly in front of him. Percival comes up beside him. Credence turns toward him and bites his lip. 'Where should I...which room should I...stay in?' he asks, feeling foolish.

Percival blushes and says, 'You can sleep with...in my room. Unless...you don't want to.'

Credence's breath leaves him in a relieved rush. He lays his hand on Percival's arm and says, 'I want to,' and that is that.

They share a bed, warm conversation, soft kisses and gentle embraces. It's heady. But Percival's hands never stray below Credence's waist and Credence isn't sure if Percival is being a gentleman, if he's shy or if kissing is all he wants. Credence knows he wants more—oh, how he wants, when he wakes tangled in Percival's embrace—but Percival's companionship settles something bigger and deeper than his brimming lust. And, so, he contents himself with what they have.

Their days are surprisingly easy and comfortable, passed in the kind of domesticity Credence has never experienced before. He feels like he can breathe easier, never realised he had been holding his breath his whole life. It feels like he finally has a home.

One evening, after Percival has gone to tend to the lighthouse, Credence comes into their room and sees his shirt laying on the bed. He had put it aside to mend, because he'd torn it while helping Percival carry firewood inside, but he isn't very good at mending things and so kept putting off the task.

He frowns and picks it up, turning it over. As he does, he notices that the hole has already been mended and, not only that, but a small design has been embroidered where it was torn. It's a flower, blue and white with flecks of yellow. Credence runs his finger over the delicate work. He had told Percival he had torn his shirt, but didn't think the other man would mend it for him, let alone add something so lovely to it. Take such care and time over something that belongs to Credence. 

His face warms and he hugs the shirt to his chest as he sinks down onto the bed. He imagines Percival bending over the shirt, needle and thread in hand, his long quick fingers moving elegantly, in contrast to his gruff exterior, flower blooming under his careful movements. Credence almost doesn't want to wear the shirt, lest it wear out again, but he thinks Percival might be offended.

When he does wear it, the next day, Percival looks pleased, gently runs his finger over the flower as they sit side by side, eating breakfast. Credence's heart soars.

They share chores and work and even cook together. Credence finds that he learns more from cooking with Percival in a few days than he had in months with Mary Lou. Perhaps it is the lack of fear that he will ruin the food and be rebuked, or purely a desire to be better for Percival that drives him. But, whatever it is, it is easier. Everything feels easier. Credence feels settled in a way he thought he never could. Percival, too, seems more at ease, the strange turn he had in the lighthouse, at least, hasn't happened again since they've been together.

Through all of it, though, the spectre of the coming ship and the new Head Lightkeeper, looms over them and Credence can't help but wonder if this is all the time he has with Percival. If it is, he intends to make the most of it.

__

When they first start sharing a bed, Credence sleeps turned away from Percival, uncertain what he should do—he's never shared a bed with anyone else before. But after three nights facing away from each other, Percival reaches for him, pulling until they are arranged with Percival on his back, Credence curled up against his side. 'That's better,' Percival whispers into Credence's hair, arms tight around him, before he falls asleep. Credence has never slept better in his life than he does that night.

He wakes each morning impossibly warm and impossibly hard. It feels right but he is shy, embarrassed, doesn't want Percival to know, doesn't know if Percival would welcome his lust or spurn it. He slips out of bed, before Percival wakes, takes care of himself when he can't will his erection away. He thinks of Percival the whole time, biting his lip to keep quiet, then tidies himself and starts his day, wondering if his own touch is all he'll know from now on.

But one morning, Percival murmurs, 'You don't have to hide from me,' a hot hand on Credence's hip, pulling him back down. Credence says, 'Sorry,' finding himself pressed down into the creaking mattress, Percival brushing a hand over his burning face.

'I thought you didn't want...' says Credence, mouth dry. He doesn't finish his sentence, words stolen by the look on Percival's face, the intensity in his dark eyes.

Percival shakes his head. 'I do.' He kisses Credence and palms him through his pyjamas. 'Is this OK?' he asks, blinking down at Credence, and Credence breathes out a desperate, 'Yes', arching into the touch.

Percival pushes Credence's pants down, curls a hand around his achingly hard cock, all the while laying tender kisses to his cheek, his mouth, his jaw. His hand works over Credence, whose hips push up and up, little moans and whines escaping his throat. Percival shushes him, tells him it's okay, all the while his fingers are tight around Credence, bringing him unspeakable pleasure. Credence comes with a soft gasp, shaking all over.

Percival kisses him, holds him tight, rests their foreheads together. Credence thinks, 'I love you,' but doesn't say it.

__

It is a blustery afternoon, with heavy winds battering the cottage, whistling through its nooks and crannies, and rain pattering on the tin roof. Inside, though, it is warm and safe. Credence and Percival are sitting by the fire, while Molly plays with some spare embroidery thread nearby. Her paws tangle in the riot of colourful cotton, as she tumbles and turns, before settling down, trying to disentangle herself.

Credence smiles as he looks over the top of his book—the same poetry book Percival had given him during the storm—watching Molly play. In his chair across from Credence, Percival embroiders with a quiet intensity. Only a month ago, Credence never would have thought he could feel so calm and settled as he does now.

He reaches for his mug as he turns a page but frowns when he brings it to his mouth, and nothing comes out. It seems he has finished his tea without realising it. 'Hmph.'

Percival huffs and Credence glances up to see he is looking over at him with fond amusement. He sets his embroidery down and says, 'Would you like another cup of tea?'

'I'll make it,' says Credence. Percival always makes it too sweet. He places a bookmark in the page he was up to and puts the book aside. 'Do you want one?'

Percival shakes his head, so Credence pushes out of his chair and makes his way to the kitchen. Molly follows him on soft, quick paws. She meows up at him, standing pointedly by her empty dish. Credence smiles. He was never much of an animal person, never had any pets growing up, but he thinks he loves Molly as much as he loves Percival.

'Hungry?' he asks as he stoops down to pour some milk out for her. She meows, again, and attacks the creamy contents of the dish with gusto.

Credence straightens, fills the kettle with water, and puts it on the stove, listening to Molly lap at her milk. Outside the kitchen window, the wind catches scattered leaves, blowing them along the ground. It is nothing like the storm from last week, but Credence is still glad to be inside. Percival comes up behind him, just as the kettle whistles, placing a hand on Credence's back. It is a fleeting gesture, one that is becoming familiar to Credence, but it thrills him all the same.

He retrieves the kettle, pours the boiling water into the teapot, over the tea leaves he had spooned into it. Their scent wafts out, stronger now they are steeping and Credence savours it, before he replaces the lid. He sets the pot down, and turns to Percival.

Percival looks troubled, a heaviness in his expression that wasn't there when they sat by the fire. While the tea leaves brew, Credence says, 'Is something wrong?'

'The new Head Lightkeeper will be here in a few days.' Percival has his hands resting on the sink as he looks out the window, away from Credence. 'You should pack your things, if you want to be ready to...go.' His voice cracks over the last word. 

Credence sucks in a harsh breath. He nearly drops the pot he had just picked up to take back to his mug by the fire. It's not as though the arrival of the new Head Lightkeeper hadn't been on his mind, that he hadn't been counting the days, wondering if they would be his last with Percival. But to have Percival voice it makes it so much more real. Final.

'Oh,' is all he says. His tongue feels thick and heavy. He wants to say 'Do you _want_ me to leave?' or 'Why can't I stay here with you, forever?' 

But, as Percival stares resolutely out of the window, hands curled tight over the sink, Credence finds he can only say, 'okay', feeling this new life slip from his grasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me [at tumblr @ gothyringwald](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/) :)
> 
> Also I've more or less just listened to This Mortal Coil's cover of Song to the Siren while writing the bulk of this entire fic, in case anyone was wondering. :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [morwrach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwrach/) for looking this over for me and suggesting a few things. :)
> 
> (The bulk of this chapter is a (fairly explicit? Explicit-ish? YMMV) sex scene.)

When Credence had first come to the island, the days passed by so slowly, it had felt like time was moving backwards. Now, though, that he has something he wants to keep, somewhere he wants to stay, time moves far too fast. 

Soon, he will have to start over, for the second time within a year. He will be alone, completely, for the first time in his life. No parents, no aunt, no one. It should be freeing, to finally not have to answer to anyone, but it's terrifying. The thought squeezes his chest, tight, keeps him awake at night, when all he wants is to be surrounded by Percival's warmth and the comfort of slumber.

During the day he stays close to Percival. He helps him, as much as he can, with work in the lighthouse, chores around the island and in the cottage. When they are not working, they share kisses and embraces and heated touches. Each minute that passes, Credence finds himself falling deeper in love. Percival seems as reluctant to leave Credence's side as Credence is to leave his, but there is a nagging uncertainty in the silences between them that has Credence doubting whether his feelings are returned. That stays Credence's tongue each time he wants to ask Percival if he can remain here.

Neither of them speak, again, of the coming ship, or of Credence's half-packed suitcase, sitting by the foot of Percival's bed. He doesn't know if Percival has noticed, but he has secreted one of Percival's sweaters, the burgundy one, hidden it beneath his trousers. It will be a remembrance of him, though a painful one. Credence already mourns the day the wool will no longer hold Percival's scent. He kneels by the bed, holds the wool to his face, and inhales. Credence wants to hold onto these last days, too, hold onto Percival, but it seems as impossible as holding water in his opened hands.

He wonders if, in years to come, he will remember the sequence in which things happen in the last few days. Will he remember that it was the day after Percival reminded him of the Head Lightkeeper's impending arrival that Percival showed him the embroidery he'd been working on, the one of Credence's face. Will he remember that came after Percival had kissed Credence by the fire until he was breathless. Or will the entire time on the island blur together, tangled by distance and memory. And will Percival remember him, remember him as keenly as Credence knows he'll remember Percival? Or will he just fade away, become another grey thing on this lonesome island.

__

It is the last night. They are, once more, sitting together by the fire. It spits in the grate, taunting Credence with warmth he cannot feel. Credence's stomach is in knots, his arms heavy by his sides, as Molly sits in his lap. His heart is in his throat, choking the words he knows he should say, that he _needs_ to say. Even in the face of losing Percival, it seems, his tongue is tied.

Percival looks up at him, then. He doesn't smile—Credence has come to learn Percival doesn't often smile, not really—but he looks at Credence with more warmth than all the people who have ever smiled at Credence put together. 

It is possible, Credence knows, this is the last night they will have together. And Credence doesn't want to spend it sitting by the fire, watching Percival embroider, no matter how much he loves to do just that. 

He leans over, takes Percival's hand and says, 'Will you make love to me?'

Percival regards him, with that same warm look, kisses the palm of his hand and says, 'Yes'.

__

The two men sit side by side on the edge of the bed, pressed up against each other, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. The room is cold but Credence feels hot all over, especially where he is touching Percival. He doesn't look at Percival, yet, but around the room. He wants to memorise it, remember every detail from the rickety wash stand where he first saw Percival half-undressed that day, to the peeling striped wallpaper, to the framed embroidery above the bed and, especially, the bed itself, with its multi-coloured quilt and scratchy wool blankets. He loves this bed.

The frame creaks as Percival shifts beside him. 'Have you done this before?'

Credence shakes his head, looking down at his lap. 'Have you...I mean, I guess you must have.' Credence glances sidelong at Percival. His brow is furrowed as he looks straight ahead.

'Yes, but it's been a long time.' 

'OK,' Credence says. He doesn't want to ask more than that, doesn't want to know more than that. Doesn't want to think of anyone else, or anything else, but this room, this man beside him. 

Percival's hands are resting on his knees. Credence reaches out and places his own trembling hand on one of them. Percival turns his hand over, and threads their fingers together. He brings their joined hands to his mouth and kisses Credence's knuckles.

'We don't have to do this, Credence, if you don't want to.'

'I want to. I do. More than anything.' Credence swallows. Especially if this is the last night they may have together, he thinks. Percival squeezes his hand and Credence manages to say, voice barely above a whisper, 'But I don't want to disappoint you.'

Percival turns to him, now. He reaches up to tentatively touch Credence's face with the hand not entwined with Credence's. 'You won't. I promise.'

Percival's eyes are so earnest, his tone, his hand so gentle that Credence feels the tight band around his chest ease a little. Wind whistles through the gaps of the window, beats against the cottage walls, but it's calmer than the storm they had recently endured. Now, there is only the tempest that rages within Credence's breast.

They sit a while longer, just holding hands, Credence's heart hammering in his chest but his stomach is no longer in knots, his limbs no longer heavy with anxiety. His blood still thrums, though, but more from anticipation, the hint of arousal, now.

Finally, Credence says, 'Will you kiss me?' and Percival doesn't say anything, just takes Credence's face in his hands, and kisses him, gently. Credence's hands stay in his lap, uncertain, as Percival kisses him, and he kisses back.

Percival pulls away. 'All right?' he asks and Credence nods. They kiss again, but soon Credence places his hands on Percival's chest, pushing gently. He stands and, looking at Percival, pulls his sweater over his head. Percival stands now, too, facing Credence, watching as Credence undresses. After the sweater he starts on his shirt, fingers fumbling over the buttons. 

Percival pulls his own sweater over his head in one swift motion, making his hair stick up. Credence pauses in unbuckling his belt to reach up and smooth it down. He lets his hand linger, gently stroking along Percival's hair, down his face, to cup the other man's jaw. Percival's eyes shut and he presses his face into the cradle of Credence's palm. The lantern on the bedside table washes his face with gold light. It catches his long lashes, makes them glisten like blades of grass dusted with morning dew.

They stand for long moments until Percival opens his eyes, again, and starts to unbutton his own shirt, eyes never leaving Credence's. Credence blinks, heart racing, and unbuckles his belt, undoes his trousers and lets them fall to the floor, stepping out of them. 

Left only in unflattering underclothes, Credence blushes. He starts on their buttons, too, looking at the floor. Percival tucks a finger under his chin and raises it. His eyes are soft and, somehow, it is easier to undo the remaining buttons, shrug his shoulders out of the union suit and push it down. Down over his ribs, sliding his arms out. Pushing it below his belly, his hips, exposing his half hard cock, down over his thighs, knees, calves until he can step out of it, shaking it off his feet. Percival is breathing heavily, and he quickly divests the rest of his own clothes until they are both standing, facing each other, completely naked.

Percival leans in and kisses him, again, chaste and soft, on the mouth. Credence pulls away and turns, clambers onto the bed, sliding under the covers. He rests on his side, propped on an elbow, the patchwork quilt turned down in an invitation that Percival takes, after staring at Credence for one long moment. They lie, facing each other, poses mirroring the other. Percival sets a hand on Credence's collarbone, runs it down over his chest, fingers trailing over hair, catching on his ribs, the curve of his side, settling to rest on a hip.

He looks awed as he takes in the sight of Credence before him. Credence, for his part, revels in the sight of Percival naked. It is overwhelming. He doesn't know where to look first, but before that thought is fully formed his eyes are already travelling the length of Percival's torso, down his stomach, following the trail of hair to where his cock rests against his thigh. His eyes stall there. 

Percival huffs and Credence's gaze cuts back to his face. 'Everything to your liking?' he asks, words assured but eyes uncertain. Credence's own face heats. 'Sorry, I...'

Percival sets a hand on his shoulder. 'It's fine. You can look all you want.' His hand moves around, splayed over Credence's shoulder blade. 'And touch, if you...if you want.'

Credence nods, cheeks still flaming, but he is comforted when he notices the pink tinge on Percival's cheeks, too. Can feel the tremor in his hand, his shaking breaths. The way he, too, doesn't seem to quite know where to look, what to do next.

Credence nods, again, and leans forward to press a soft kiss to the dip below Percival's throat. Percival's breath catches. His hand moves from Credence's shoulder blade, up to the back of his neck, fingers sinking into the downy hair, there. Credence shifts so he can kiss Percival on the mouth. They are closer, now, thighs touching, chests bumping.

He rests his hand on Percival's waist, fingers digging into soft flesh, as they kiss. Their legs tangle together, ankles brushing, calves hooked around each other.

Percival runs his hand down Credence's back, settling just above the curve of his backside and Credence shivers. No one has ever touched him like this, he suddenly thinks, no one has ever wanted to touch him like this. The thought is overwhelming and he pulls back, chest heaving as his breath comes quickly.

'Are you OK? We can stop...'

'No, no, I want to do this.' And, oh, how he wants to do this. He is drawn to Percival like the pull of the tide. 'I just...I can't believe you want to.' That wasn't what he had meant to say, but now the words are out there, he realises that's part of why this is so overwhelming. He knows that Percival sees himself as broken, but he's the best person Credence has ever known. That he could want to be with Credence, who feels less like a whole person, and more like an empty vessel, waiting to be filled, astonishes him.

'Of course I want to,' Percival says, running the backs of his fingers over Credence's cheek. He curls his hand around the back of Credence's neck, kisses his jaw, his cheek, his nose. Credence lets him, uncertain what he should be doing, one arm tucked awkwardly between them, the other still curled around Percival, gripping his waist as those gentle kisses are laid upon him.

'It's just...' Credence says, gasping as Percival's teeth scrape his pulse. 'I thought you didn't want to. You haven't asked me to touch you, or...' Credence trails off, thinking of their nights in bed, Percival's hands on him, his mouth on him. But never the other way around.

'I've been happy just to make you feel good, Credence,' Percival says against his throat.

Credence swallows. 'I want you to feel good, too,' he says, and feels Percival smile into his skin.

Their noses bump as Percival moves back so he can kiss Credence on the mouth again. Credence blushes and Percival mumbles, 'Sorry'. 

'It's OK,' Credence says and presses his lips to Percival's. He opens them, this time, letting Percival's tongue into his mouth. He is so caught up in the kiss he doesn't feel self conscious when Percival's hand slides back to his ass, resting lightly on it, before he squeezes, gently. Credence moans into his mouth and his hips jerk forward, making his cock brush against Percival's. He moans, again, and so does Percival this time. Feeling bold, he rolls his hips so that their cocks touch, again, and Percival pulls away with a gasp. His hand still rests on Credence's backside, fingers digging in lightly. He uses that hand to pull Credence's hips flush against his and Credence's eyes flutter shut. 

Credence is sure he's never felt this aroused in his life. This is Percival, touching him, they are naked, and they're both hard, and Percival is hard because of Credence. He slides his arm around Percival's back, so now they're touching from shoulder to hip.

Percival whispers, 'Can I?' in Credence's ear as his fingers trail lightly over Credence's ass.

Credence nods—'yes'—and then Percival reaches behind him for the small jar of vaseline that Credence had set on the nightstand. Credence's face heats and his heart thunders but he is ready for this and so when Percival's fingers return, he takes deep steadying breaths and lets Percival slide one finger inside of him. He presses in so slowly, letting Credence adjust, until finally one of his fingers is all the way inside. He moves it back out, again, and then in, working it in time with the gentle thrust of his hips against Credence's, the pleasure of their cocks moving against each other a distraction from the strange feeling of Percival's finger inside of him. Soon, he adds a second, and Credence wonders if the angle is awkward for him, facing each other like this, but then Percival crooks his fingers and, 'Oh,' he says, breathless. 'Oh, do that again.'

Percival chuckles, kisses his neck, and does it again. It's like nothing Credence has ever felt. An unrelenting pressure inside. But it's good.

'Do you think you're ready?' asks Percival. 'Can we?'

'Yes,' Credence says, emphatically. 'What should I...what do you want me to...do?'

'Roll over,' Percival says, voice hoarse. 'Onto your other side.'

'OK,' Credence says and does as he's told.

Percival's hand settles on his hip, then slides down to his thigh. He pulls and Credence moves with him, lets himself be arranged, trusts Percival to move his body how it needs to be so they can do this. 

'Hold your leg like this,' Percival says and Credence does, feels so exposed, but safe all the same. His heart thunders and his cock twitches against his stomach. 

'OK?' asks Percival, again, and Credence says 'yes,' then, 'just...just a moment,' and shifts because his thigh is starting to cramp. 

'Can you still...if I'm like this?' he asks, though he hasn't moved much. 

'Yes,' Percival says and then he pushes in, inching his way forward, letting Credence adjust before he moves. Percival's breath is hot and heavy on Credence's shoulder, syncopated with Credence's own quick breaths. His fingers dig into Credence's hip so hard, Credence wonders if they will bruise. But the feeling anchors him.

After what feels like years, Percival's hips are flush against Credence, and he is inside Credence fully. 'Oh,' Credence says, hips tilting back. 'I...I, uh...'

'Shh, it's OK, you don't have to say anything.' Percival rubs a hand over his stomach.

Credence nods, glad for Percival's reassurance, because he can't find words to describe this. The stretch of Percival inside of him burns, a little, but it's good. More the thought that Percival is _inside of him_ , than the feeling, for now, but when Percival asks if he can move Credence says yes.

It feels like the waves crashing against the island, the storm that had them holed up in the lighthouse for days. Credence wants this storm to rage infinitely. Doesn't want to feel anything but Percival moving behind him, inside him. And, yet, Percival is so gentle, the opposite to the feelings within Credence. He has never felt so cherished as this. With Percival's cock inside of him, his hand running over Credence's chest, his stomach, his breath in his ear, the few words that fall from his lips, telling Credence that he feels good, that he is good.

Percival reaches around, takes hold of his cock, and Credence gasps. He arches his back, driving Percival's cock deeper inside of him.

'I think-I think I'm going to...'

'It's OK, let me see you,' Percival says, low, in his ear, chin hooked over his shoulder, and then Credence comes. Percival grunts and bites down on his shoulder and then, soon, Credence feels him spill within him, hot, and deep.

They lie, panting and sweaty, with Percival still inside of Credence, mouth pressed against the back of his neck. He places his hand, slick with Credence's come, over Credence's own, fisted in the sheets.

'Thank-you,' Credence says, then blushes. What a foolish thing to say. 

Percival huffs against his neck. 'Thank- _you_ ,' he says, then kisses the back of Credence's neck. He slides out of Credence and Credence's stomach drops as he realises that he will never have Percival inside him, again. He had forgotten about tomorrow, and the ship that will take him from the island and from Percival.

The bed dips and creaks as Percival moves behind him and then Percival is wiping at his thighs. Credence hears the soft sound of fabric falling to the floor and then Percival urges him to roll over. It's the first time he's looked into Percival's face since they began making love and he ducks his head, suddenly melancholy. Tears prick at his eyes but he blinks them back. He doesn't want to taint this night with them.

'Hey,' Percival says, tucking a finger under his chin. 'Are you OK?'

'Yes,' Credence says, looking up. There is concern in Percival's eyes and Credence's heart melts. 'I'm more than OK.' And then Percival kisses him, draws him close, their thighs and bellies touching. Credence wills himself to forget tomorrow, again, just for tonight. 

He cups his hand around Percival's neck and licks his lips. 'Was that...was it good. For you.'

'It was perfect, Credence,' Percival says, thumb idly tracing circles over his cheek. 'You're perfect.'

Credence only smiles and rests his forehead against Percival's, fingers resting lightly on the other man's neck. Percival pulls the blankets up around them, tucking them around Credence's shoulder, and then holds Credence tight. Credence wishes they could stay like this, forever.

__

Waves crash against the rocks below as Credence walks with Percival. Molly circles their feet, then darts away to chase a stray leaf. Her quick paws stir up little flurries of dirt. Credence moves closer to Percival as they walk, but neither man reaches out to touch the other. It's not needed. Just being close is enough for Credence, today. He looks at Percival, lets his eyes trace the curve of his nose, his thin lips, his ears, his strong brow. Tries to etch his face into his memory. He wishes he had a camera. A cold wind blows past and Credence shivers.

'Cold?' asks Percival and Credence only nods. Percival stops walking and draws Credence to him. They stand, like that, for long moments, warm in each other's embrace, despite the fresh briny air whipping around them.

A foghorn sounds and Credence pulls away, turns toward the ocean. His chest tightens as he eyes the vessel approaching the island. The new Head Lightkeeper has finally come. He looks to Percival who is standing with his arms crossed over his chest.

'I suppose...I suppose this is it, then,' Percival says. His voice betrays nothing of what he is feeling. He is not looking at Credence, but at a gull that wheels overhead. Credence thinks of the gull he saw when he was in the boat that brought him here. He can't believe that was only a month ago. It feels like another lifetime. Percival looks at him, now, briefly and says, 'You should get your things ready.'

It takes Credence several long moments before the words in his heart finally make their way out. They have eluded him, for days, but he can't let this moment pass by without saying anything. 'I love you,' he says, but his words are lost in the wind.

Percival frowns. 'What?'

Credence takes a deep breath and says, louder, 'I love you.' He looks away, then, not wanting to see Percival's reaction. He hears his sharp intake of breath, though. Credence's heart thunders. 'Don't you love me? Don't want want me to stay?'

'That doesn't matter, Credence,' Percival says. His voice is hoarse, his words halting. 'You're young. You shouldn't stay hidden away here, with me. It wouldn't...it wouldn't be fair to you.'

Hope blooms in Credence's chest. Percival hasn't said he doesn't want Credence to stay. 'I want to stay, Percival. More than anything.'

'Credence...'

Credence looks up to the sky. There is the tiniest crack in the clouds, and he thinks he sees blue, finally, between the grey. It bolsters him. He looks back to Percival. 'Do you want me to stay?'

Percival looks out across the headland, toward the approaching ship. His face is impassive. Credence's heart sinks as the moments pass and Percival remains silent. But then Percival turns to him, smiling, and it is like the clouds parting. He takes Credence's hand, squeezes it tight, and says, 'Yes.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are done, folks! Thank-you so much to everyone who has left comments and kudos along the way. I was pretty surprised at the reception to this one, to be honest, but I'm glad it's resonated with so many of you. 
> 
> I’m actually a little nervous about this last chapter (I’m not sure if that’s the sort of thing one is meant to admit in author notes but well I have) but it’s done and I’ve posted it! So hopefully it’s enjoyable and a satisfying end to this fic.
> 
> This also might be my last gradence fic for a little while, unfortunately. I'll still be staying active in the fandom on tumblr [@gothyringwald](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/), though :) and I've got some ficlets I started that I will probably eventually finish up & post somewhere.
> 
> Oh, ICYMI I [made an edit for the fic](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/165911887170/the-lighthouse-keeper-a-gradence-au-gifted) way back at the beginning. 
> 
> One final note: so Credence probably goes back to the mainland briefly to bury Mary Lou (Percival isn’t yet ready to leave the island) because it feels the proper thing to do but he returns immediately after that’s all sorted. (I tried to fit in another mention of Mary Lou in this chapter but it didn't feel organic :S). The new head lightkeeper turns out to be Jacob who brings his wife Queenie & their children with him. When they realise Credence & Percival are living together they also invite Tina & Newt to live in the extra cottage. And then they're all a big happy family, yay!


End file.
